The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Hour and the Man, by Harriet Martineau

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Title: The Hour and the Man
       An Historical Romance

Author: Harriet Martineau

Release Date: January 31, 2008 [EBook #24120]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUR AND THE MAN ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Hour and the Man, by Harriet Martineau.

________________________________________________________________________
The following is taken with acknowledgements from Chambers Dictionary of
Biography, about the subject of this book.

Pierre Dominique Toussaint l'Ouverture (1746-1803). Haitian black
revolutionary leader (the surname derives from his bravery in once
making a breach in the ranks of the enemy).  Born of African slave
parents in Haiti, he was freed in 1777.  In 1791 he joined the black
insurgents, and in 1797 was made commander-in-chief in the island by the
French Convention.  He drove out British and Spaniards, restored order
and prosperity, and about 1800 began to aim at independence.  Napoleon
proclaimed the re-establishment of slavery, but Toussaint declined to
obey.  He was eventually overpowered and taken prisoner, and died in a
prison in France.

Harriet Martineau wrote this book in 1839, during which year she also
wrote "Deerbrook", and published an analysis of her tour of America,
from which she had returned in 1836.

________________________________________________________________________
THE HOUR AND THE MAN, BY HARRIET MARTINEAU.



CHAPTER ONE.

WAITING SUPPER.

The nights of August are in Saint Domingo the hottest of the year.  The
winds then cease to befriend the panting inhabitants; and while the
thermometer stands at 90 degrees, there is no steady breeze, as during
the preceding months of summer.  Light puffs of wind now and then fan
the brow of the negro, and relieve for an instant the oppression of the
European settler; but they are gone as soon as come, and seem only to
have left the heat more intolerable than before.

Of these sultry evenings, one of the sultriest was the 22nd of August,
1791.  This was one of five days appointed for rejoicings in the town of
Cap Francais--festivities among the French and Creole inhabitants, who
were as ready to rejoice on appointed occasions as the dulness of
colonial life renders natural, but who would have been yet more lively
than they were if the date of their festival had been in January or May.
There was no choice as to the date, however.  They were governed in
regard to their celebrations by what happened at Paris; and never had
the proceedings of the mother-country been so important to the colony as
now.

During the preceding year, the white proprietors of Saint Domingo, who
had hailed with loud voices the revolutionary doctrines before which
royalty had begun to succumb in France, were astonished to find their
cries of Liberty and Equality adopted by some who had no business with
such ideas and words.  The mulatto proprietors and merchants of the
island innocently understood the words according to their commonly
received meaning, and expected an equal share with the whites in the
representation of the colony, in the distribution of its offices, and in
the civil rights of its inhabitants generally.  These rights having been
denied by the whites to the freeborn mulattoes, with every possible
manifestation of contempt and dislike, an effort had been made to wring
from the whites by force what they would not grant to reason; and an
ill-principled and ill-managed revolt had taken place, in the preceding
October, headed by Vincent Oge and his brother, sons of the proprietress
of a coffee plantation, a few miles from Cap Francais.  These young men
were executed, under circumstances of great barbarity.  Their sufferings
were as seed sown in the warm bosoms of their companions and adherents,
to spring up, in due season, in a harvest of vigorous revenge.  The
whites suspected this; and were as anxious as their dusky neighbours to
obtain the friendship and sanction of the revolutionary government at
home.  That government was fluctuating in its principles and in its
counsels; it favoured now one party, and now the other; and on the
arrival of its messengers at the ports of the colony, there ensued
sometimes the loud boastings of the whites, and sometimes quiet, knowing
smiles and whispered congratulations among the depressed section of the
inhabitants.

The cruelties inflicted on Vincent Oge had interested many influential
persons in Paris in the cause of the mulattoes.  Great zeal was
exorcised in attempting to put them in a condition to protect themselves
by equal laws, and thus to restrain the tyranny of the whites.  The Abbe
Gregoire pleaded for them in the National Assembly; and on the 10th of
March was passed the celebrated decree which gave the mulattoes the
privileges of French citizens, even to the enjoyment of the suffrage,
and to the possession of seats in the parochial and colonial assemblies.
To Europeans there appears nothing extraordinary in the admission to
these civil functions of freeborn persons, many of whom were wealthy,
and many educated; but to the whites of Saint Domingo the decree was
only less tremendous than the rush of the hurricane.

It arrived at Cap Francais on the 30th of June, and the tidings
presently spread.  At first, no one believed them but the mulattoes.
When it was no longer possible to doubt--when the words of Robespierre
passed from mouth to mouth, till even the nuns told them to one another
in the convent garden--"Perish the colonies, rather than sacrifice one
iota of our principles!" the whites trampled the national cockade under
their feet in the streets, countermanded their orders for the fete of
the 14th of July (as they now declined taking the civic oath), and
proposed to one another to offer their colony and their allegiance to
England.

They found means, however, to gratify their love of power, and their
class-hatred, by means short of treason.  They tried disobedience first,
as the milder method.  The governor of the colony, Blanchelande,
promised that when the decree should reach him officially, he would
neglect it, and all applications from any quarter to have it enforced.
This set all straight.  Blanchelande was pronounced a sensible and
patriotic man.  The gentlemen shook hands warmly with him at every turn;
the ladies made deep and significant curtseys wherever they met him; the
boys taught their little negroes to huzza at the name of Blanchelande;
and the little girls called him a dear creature.  In order to lose no
time in showing that they meant to make laws for their own colony out of
their own heads, and no others, the white gentry hastened on the
election of deputies for a new General Colonial Assembly.  The deputies
were elected, and met, to the number of a hundred and seventy-six, at
Leogane, in the southern region of the island, so early as the 9th of
August.  After exchanging greetings and vows of fidelity to their
class-interests, under the name of patriotism, they adjourned their
assembly to the 25th, when they were to meet at Cap Francais.  It was
desirable to hold their very important session in the most important
place in the colony, the centre of intelligence, the focus of news from
Europe, and the spot where they had first sympathised with the
ungrateful government at home, by hoisting, with their own white hands,
the cap of liberty, and shouting, so that the world might hear, "Liberty
and Equality!"  "Down with Tyranny!"

By the 20th, the deputies were congregated at Cap Francais; and daily
till the great 25th were they seen to confer together in coteries in the
shady piazzas, or in the Jesuits' Walk, in the morning, and to dine
together in parties in the afternoon, admitting friends and well-wishers
to these tavern dinners.  Each day till the 25th was to be a fete-day in
the town and neighbourhood; and of these days the hot 22nd was one.

Among these friends and well-wishers were the whites upon all the
plantations in the neighbourhood of the town.  There was scarcely an
estate in the Plaine du Nord, or on the mountain steeps which overlooked
the cape, town, and bay, on all sides but the north, which did not
furnish guests to these dinners.  The proprietors, their bailiffs, the
clergy, the magistrates, might all be seen along the roads, in the cool
of the morning; and there was a holiday air about the estates they left
behind.  The negroes were left for this week to do their work pretty
much as they liked, or to do none at all.  There was little time to
think of them, and of ordinary business, when there were the mulattoes
to be ostentatiously insulted, and the mother-country to be defied.  So
the negroes slept at noon, and danced at night, during these few August
days, and even had leave to visit one another to as great an extent as
was ever allowed.  Perhaps they also transacted other affairs of which
their masters had little suspicion.

All that ever was allowed was permitted to the slaves on the Breda
estate, in the plain, a few miles from Cap Francais.  The attorney, or
bailiff of the estate, Monsieur Bayou de Libertas, was a kind-hearted
man, who, while insisting very peremptorily on his political and social
rights, and vehemently denouncing all abstract enmity to them, liked
that people actually about him should have their own way.  While
ransacking his brain for terms of abuse to vent on Lafayette and
Condorcet, he rarely found anything harsh to utter when Caton got drunk,
and spoiled his dinner; when Venus sent up his linen darker than it went
down to the quarter, or when little Machabee picked his pocket of small
coin.  Such a man was, of course, particularly busy this week; and of
course, the slaves under his charge were particularly idle, and
particularly likely to have friends from other plantations to visit
them.

Some such visitor seemed to be expected by a family of these Breda
negroes, on the Monday evening, the 22nd.  This family did not live in
the slave-quarter.  They had a cottage near the stables, as Toussaint
Breda had been Monsieur Bayou's postillion, and, when he was lately
promoted to be overseer, it was found convenient to all parties that he
should retain his dwelling, which had been enlarged and adorned so as to
accord with the dignity of his new office.  In the piazza of his
dwelling sat Toussaint this evening, evidently waiting for some one to
arrive; for he frequently put down his book to listen for footsteps, and
more than once walked round the house to look abroad.  His wife, who was
within, cooking supper, and his daughter and little boy, who were beside
him in the piazza, observed his restlessness; for Toussaint was a great
reader, and seldom looked off the page for a moment of any spare hour
that he might have for reading either the books Monsieur Bayou lent him,
or the three or four volumes which he had been permitted to purchase for
himself.

"Do you see Jean?" asked the wife from within.  "Shall we wait supper
for him?"

"Wait a little longer," said Toussaint.  "It will be strange if he does
not come."

"Are any more of Latour's people coming with Jean, mother?" asked
Genifrede, from the piazza.

"No; they have a supper at Latour's to-night; and we should not have
thought of inviting Jean, but that he wants some conversation with your
father."

"Lift me up," cried the little boy, who was trying in vain to scramble
up one of the posts of the piazza, in order to reach a humming-bird's
nest, which hung in the tendrils of a creeper overhead, and which a
light puff of wind now set swinging, so as to attract the child's eye.
What child ever saw a humming-bird thus rocking--its bill sticking out
like a long needle on one side, and its tail at the other, without
longing to clutch it?  So Denis cried out imperiously to be lifted up.
His father set him on the shelf within the piazza, where the calabashes
were kept--a station whence he could see into the nest, and watch the
bird, without being able to touch it.  This was not altogether
satisfactory.  The little fellow looked about him for a calabash to
throw at the nest; but his mother had carried in all her cups for the
service of the supper-table.  As no more wind came at his call, he could
only blow with all his might, to swing the tendril again; and he was
amusing himself thus when his father laid down his book, and stepped out
to see once more whether Jean was approaching.

"Lift me down," said the boy to his sister, when his head was giddy with
blowing.  Genifrede would fain have let him stay where he was, out of
the way of mischief; but she saw that he was really afraid of falling,
and she offered her shoulders for him to descend upon.  When down, she
would not let him touch her work; she took her scissors from his busy
hands, and shook him off when he tried to pull the snowberries out of
her hair; so that there was nothing left for the child to play with but
his father's book.  He was turning it over, when Toussaint re-appeared.

"Ha! boy, a book in your hands already?  I hope you may have as much
comfort out of that book as I have had, Denis."

"What is it? what is it about?" said the boy, who had heard many a story
out of books from his father.

"What is it?  Let us see.  I think you know letters enough to spell it
out for yourself.  Come and try."

The child knew the letter E, and, with a good deal of help, made out, at
last, Epictetus.

"What is that?" asked the boy.

"Epictetus was a negro," said Genifrede, complacently.

"Not a negro," said her father, smiling.  "He was a slave; but he was a
white."

"Is that the reason you read that book so much more than any other?"

"Partly; but partly because I like what is in it."

"What is in it--any stories?" asked Denis.

"It is all about bearing and forbearing.  It has taught me many things
which you will have to learn by-and-by.  I shall teach you some of them
out of this book."

Denis made all haste away from the promised instruction, and his father
was presently again absorbed in his book.  From respect to him,
Genifrede kept Denis quiet by signs of admonition; and for some little
time nothing was heard but the sounds that in the plains of Saint
Domingo never cease--the humming and buzzing of myriads of insects, the
occasional chattering of monkeys in a neighbouring wood, and, with a
passing gust, a chorus of frogs from a distant swamp.  Unconscious of
this din, from being accustomed always to hear more or less of it, the
boy amused himself with chasing the fireflies, whose light began to
glance around as darkness descended.  His sister was poring over her
work, which she was just finishing, when a gleam of greenish light made
both look up.  It came from a large meteor which sailed past towards the
mountains, whither were tending also the huge masses of cloud which
gather about the high peaks previous to the season of rain and
hurricanes.  There was nothing surprising in this meteor, for the sky
was full of them in August nights; but it was very beautiful.  The globe
of green light floated on till it burst above the mountains,
illuminating the lower clouds, and revealing along the slopes of the
uplands the coffee-groves, waving and bowing their heads in the
wandering winds of that high region.  Genifrede shivered at the sight,
and her brother threw himself upon her lap.  Before he had asked half
his questions about the lights of the sky, the short twilight was gone,
and the evening star cast a faint shadow from the tufted posts of the
piazza upon the white wall of the cottage.  In a low tone, full of awe,
Genifrede told the boy such stories as she had heard from her father of
the mysteries of the heavens.  He felt that she trembled as she told of
the northern lights, which had been actually seen by some travelled
persons now in Cap Francais.  It took some time and argument to give him
an idea of cold countries; but his uncle Paul, the fisherman, had seen
hail on the coast, only thirty miles from hence; and this was a great
step in the evidence.  Denis listened with all due belief to his
sister's description of those pale lights shooting up over the sky, till
he cried out vehemently, "There they are! look!"

Genifrede screamed, and covered her face with her hands; while the boy
shouted to his father, and ran to call his mother to see the lights.

What they saw, however, was little like the pale, cold rays of the
aurora borealis.  It was a fiery red, which, shining to some height in
the air, was covered in by a canopy of smoke.

"Look up, Genifrede," said her father, laying his hand upon her head.
"It is a fire--a cane-field on fire."

"And houses, too--the sugar-house, no doubt," said Margot, who had come
out to look.  "It burns too red to be canes only.  Can it be at
Latour's?  That would keep Jean from coming.--It was the best supper I
ever got ready for him."

"Latour's is over that way," said Toussaint, pointing some distance
further to the south-east.  "But see! there is fire there, too!  God
have mercy!"

He was silent, in mournful fear that he knew now too well the reason why
Jean had not come, and the nature of the conversation Jean had desired
to have with him.  As he stood with folded arms looking from the one
conflagration to the other, Genifrede clung to him trembling with
terror.  In a quarter of an hour another blaze appeared on the horizon;
and soon after, a fourth.

"The sky is on fire," cried Denis, in more delight than fear.  "Look at
the clouds!"  And the clouds did indeed show, throughout their huge
pile, some a mild flame colour, and others a hard crimson edge, as
during a stormy sunset.

"Alas! alas! this is rebellion," said Toussaint; "rebellion against God
and man.  God have mercy!  The whites have risen against their king; and
now the blacks rise against them, in turn.  It is a great sin.  God have
mercy!"

Margot wept bitterly.  "Oh, what shall we do?" she cried, "What will
become of us, if there is a rebellion?"

"Be cheerful, and fear nothing," replied her husband.  "I have not
rebelled, and I shall not.  Monsieur Bayou has taught me to bear and
forbear--yes, my boy, as this book says, and as the book of God says: We
will be faithful, and fear nothing."

"But they may burn this plantation," cried Margot.  "They may come here,
and take you away.  They may ruin Monsieur Bayou, and then we may be
sold away; we may be parted--"

Her grief choked her words.

"Fear nothing," said her husband, with calm authority.  "We are in God's
hand; and it is a sin to fear His will.  But see! there is another fire,
over towards the town."

And he called aloud the name of his eldest son, saying he should send
the boy with a horse to meet his master.  He himself must remain to
watch at home.

Placide did not come when called, nor was he at the stables.  He was
gone some way off, to cut fresh grass for the cattle--a common
night-labour on the plantation.

"Call Isaac, then," said Toussaint.

"Run, Genifrede," said her mother.  "Isaac and Aimee are in the wood.
Run, Genifrede."

Genifrede did not obey.  She was too much terrified to leave the piazza
alone; though her father gently asked when she, his eldest daughter, and
almost a woman, would leave off being scared on all occasions like a
child.  Margot went herself; so far infected with her daughter's fears
as to be glad to take little Denis in her hand.  She was not long gone.
As soon as she entered the wood she heard the sound of her children's
laughter above the noise the monkeys made; and she was guided by it to
the well.  There, in the midst of the opening which let in the
starlight, stood the well, surrounded by the only grass on the Breda
estate that was always fresh and green; and there were Isaac and his
inseparable companion, Aimee, making the grass greener by splashing each
other with more than half the water they drew.  Their bright eyes and
teeth could be seen by the mild light, as they were too busy with their
sport to heed their mother as she approached.  She soon made them
serious with her news.  Isaac flew to help his father with the horses,
while Aimee, a stout girl of twelve, assisted her mother in earnest to
draw water, and carry it home.

They found Genifrede crouching alone in a corner of the piazza.  In
another minute Toussaint appeared on horseback, leading a saddled horse.

"I am going for Monsieur Bayou myself," said he; adding, as he glanced
round the lurid horizon, "it is not a night for boys to be abroad.  I
shall be back in an hour.  If Monsieur Bayou comes by the new road, tell
him that I am gone by Madame Oge's.  If fire breaks out here, go into
the wood.  If I meet Placide, I will send him home."

He disappeared under the limes in the avenue; and his family heard the
pace of the horses quicken into a gallop before the sound died away upon
the road.



CHAPTER TWO.

THE EXCLUSIVES.

The party of deputies with whom Monsieur Bayou was dining were assembled
at the great hotel, at the corner of Place Mont Archer, at Cap Francais.
Languidly, though gladly, did the guests, especially those from the
country, enter the hotel, overpowering as was the heat of the roads and
the streets.  In the roads, the sand lay so deep, that the progress of
horsemen was necessarily slow, while the sun seemed to shed down a
deluge of flame.  In the streets, there was the shelter of the piazzas;
but their pillars, if accidentally touched, seemed to burn the hand; and
the hum of traffic, and the sound of feet, appeared to increase the
oppression caused by the weather.  Within the hotel, all was
comparatively cool and quiet.  The dining and drawing-rooms occupied by
the guests adjoined each other, and presented none but the most welcome
images.  The jalousies were nearly closed; and through the small spaces
that were left open, there might be seen in one direction the fountain
playing in the middle of the Place, and in the other, diagonally across
the Rue Espagnole, the Jesuits' Walk, an oblong square laid down in
grass, and shaded in the midst by an avenue of palms.  Immediately
opposite the hotel was the Convent of Religieuses, over whose garden
wall more trees were seen; so that the guests _might_ easily have
forgotten that they were in the midst of a town.

The rooms were so dark that those who entered from the glare of the
streets could at first see nothing.  The floor was dark, being of native
mahogany, polished like a looking-glass.  The walls were green, the
furniture green--everything ordered in counter-action of light and heat.
In the dining-room more was visible; there was the white cloth spread
over the long range of tables, and the plate and glass, glittering in
such light as was allowed to enter; and also the gilded balustrade of
the gallery, to be used to-day as an orchestra.  This gallery was
canopied over, as was the seat of the chairman, with palm branches and
evergreens, intermixed with fragrant shrubs, and flowers of all hues.  A
huge bunch of peacocks' feathers was suspended from the lofty ceiling,
and it was waved incessantly to and fro, by strings pulled by two little
negroes, at opposite corners of the room, causing a continual fanning of
the air, and circulation of the perfumes of the flowers.  The black band
in the orchestra summoned the company to dinner, and entertained them
while at it by playing the popular revolutionary airs which were then
resounding through the colony like the hum of its insects, or the dash
of its waterfalls.  As they took their seats to the air of the
"Marseillaise Hymn," more than one of the guests might be heard by his
next neighbour singing to himself:

  "Allons, enfans de la patrie,
  Le jour de gloire est arrive."

Before politics, however, there was dinner to be attended to; and the
first-fruits of the eloquence of the meeting was bestowed on the
delicate turtle, the well-fattened land-crabs, and the rich pasties--on
the cold wines, the refreshing jellies, and the piles of oranges, figs,
and almonds, pomegranates, melons, and pine-apples.  The first vote of
compliment was to Henri, the black cook from Saint Christophe, whence he
had been brought over by the discerning hotel-keeper, who detected his
culinary genius while Henri was yet but a lad.  When the table was
cleared, a request was sent up to the chairman from various parties at
the table, that he would command Henri's attendance, to receive the
testimony of the company respecting the dinner he had sent up, and to
take a glass of wine from them.

Dr Proteau, the chairman, smilingly agreed, saying that such a tribute
was no more than Henri's professional excellence and high reputation
deserved; and Henri was accordingly summoned by a dozen of the grinning
black waiters, who ran over one another in their haste to carry to the
kitchen the message of these, the highest gentry of the land.  The
waiters presently poured into the room again, and stood in two rows from
the door, where Henri appeared, not laughing like the rest, but
perfectly grave, as he stood, white apron on, and napkin over his arm,
his stout and tall figure erect, to receive the commands of his masters.

"Was your father a cook or a gourmand, Henri?  Or are you all good cooks
at Saint Christophe?" asked a deputy.

"If it is the air of Saint Christophe that makes men such cooks as
Henri, the knights of Saint John of Malta had a goodly gift in it," said
another.

"Can one get such another as you for money, Henri?" asked a third.

"How many boys has your wife brought you, Henri?  We shall bid high for
them, and make your master's fortune, if he trains them all to your
profession," said a fourth.

"Tell your master he had better not part with you for any sum, Henri.
We will make it worth his while to refuse more for you than was ever
offered yet."

"Your health, Henri!  May you live out all the turtle now in Saint
Domingo, and the next generation after them."

Amidst all these questions and remarks, Henri escaped answering any.  He
stood looking on the ground, till a glass of champagne was brought to
him, bowed to the company, drank it off, and was gone.

"How demure the fellow looks!" said Monsieur Papalier, a planter, to
Bayou, his neighbour in the plain, who now sat opposite to him; "what an
air of infinite modesty he put on!  At this moment, I daresay he is
snapping his fingers, and telling the women that all the money in Saint
Domingo won't buy him."

"You are mistaken there," said Bayou.  "He is a singular fellow, is
Henri, in more ways than his cookery.  I believe he never snapped his
fingers in his life, nor told anybody what his master gave for him.  I
happen to know Henri very well, from his being an acquaintance of my
overseer, who is something of the same sort, only superior even to
Henri."

"The fellow looked as if he would have given a great deal more than his
glass of wine to have stayed out of the room," observed Monsieur Leroy.
"He has nothing of the mulatto in him, has he?  Pure African, I
suppose."

"Pure African--all safe," replied Bayou.  "But observe! the music has
stopped, and we are going on to the business of the day.  Silence,
there!  Silence, all!"

Everybody said "Silence!" and Dr Proteau rose.

He declared himself to be in a most remarkable situation--one in which
he was sure every Frenchman present would sympathise with him.  Here he
stood, chairman of a meeting of the most loyal, the most spirited, the
most patriotic citizens of the empire, chairman of an assemblage of
members of a colonial parliament, and of their guests and friends--here
he stood, in this capacity, and yet he was unable to propose any one of
the loyal toasts by which it had, till now, been customary to sanction
their social festivities.  As for the toast, now never more to be heard
from their lips--the health of the king and royal family--the less that
was said about that the better.  The times of oppression were passing
away; and he, for one, would not dim the brightness of the present
meeting by recalling from the horizon, where it was just disappearing,
the tempest cloud of tyranny, to overshadow the young sunshine of
freedom.  There had been, however, another toast, to which they had been
wont to respond with more enthusiasm than was ever won by despotic
monarchy from its slaves.  There had been a toast to which this lofty
roof had rung again, and to hail which every voice had been loud, and
every heart had beat high.  Neither could he now propose that toast.
With grief which consumed his soul, he was compelled to bury in
silence--the silence of mortification, the silence of contempt, the
silence of detestation--the name of the National Assembly of France.
His language might appear strong; but it was mild, it was moderate; it
was, he might almost say, cringing, in comparison with what the National
Assembly had deserved.  He need not occupy the time of his friends, nor
harrow their feelings, by a narrative of the injuries their colony had
sustained at the hands of the French National Assembly.  Those around
him knew too well, that in return for their sympathy in the humbling of
a despot, for their zeal in behalf of the eternal principles of freedom,
the mother-country had, through the instrumentality of its National
Council, endeavoured to strip its faithful whites in this colony of the
power which they had always possessed, and which was essential to their
very existence in their ancient prosperity--the exclusive power of
making or enforcing laws for their own community.  The attempt was now
made, as they too well knew, to wrest this sacred privilege from their
hands, by admitting to share it a degraded race, before whose inroads
would perish all that was most dear to his fellow-citizens and to
himself--the repose of their homes, the security of their property, the
honour of their colour, and the prosperity of the colony.  He rejoiced
to see around him, and from his heart he bade them welcome, some
fellow-labourers with himself in the glorious work of resisting
oppression, and defending their ancient privileges, endeared to them by
as many ages as had passed since distinctions of colour were made by an
Almighty hand.  He invited them to pledge themselves with him to
denounce and resist such profane, such blasphemous innovations, proposed
by shallow enthusiasts, seconded by designing knaves, and destined to be
wrought out by the agency of demons--demons in human form.  He called
upon all patriots to join him in his pledge; and in token of their
faith, to drink deep to one now more deserving of their homage than was
ever king or National Assembly--he need not say that he alluded to the
noblest patriot in the colony--its guardian, its saviour--Governor
Blanchelande.

The gentleman who rose, amidst the cheers and jingling of glasses, to
say a few words to this toast, was a man of some importance in the
colony as a member of its Assembly, though he otherwise held no higher
rank than that of attorney to the estate of Monsieur Gallifet, a rich
absentee.  Odeluc was an old resident, and (though zealous for the
privileges of the whites) a favourite with men of all colours, and
therefore entitled to be listened to by all with attention, when he
spoke on the conflicting interests of races.  However his opinions might
please or displease, all liked to look upon his bright countenance, and
to hear his lively voice.  Vincent Oge had said that Odeluc was a worse
foe to the mulattoes than many a worse man--he always so excited their
good-will as to make them forget their rights.

As he now rose, the air from the peacock-fan stirring the white hair
upon his forehead (for in the heats of Saint Domingo it was permitted to
lay wigs aside), and the good wine animating yet further the spirit of
his lively countenance, Odeluc was received with a murmur of welcome,
before he opened his lips to speak.

"I must acknowledge, my fellow-citizens," said he, "I never was more
satisfied with regard to the state of our colony than now.  We have had
our troubles, to be sure, like the mother-country, and like all
countries where portions of the people struggle for power which they
ought not to have.  But we have settled that matter for ourselves, by
the help of our good Governor, and I firmly believe that we are at the
commencement of a long age of peace."

Here some applauded, while two or three shook their head.  Odeluc
continued--

"I see some of my friends do not altogether share my hopes.  Yet are
these hopes not reasonable?  The Governor has himself assured me that
nothing shall induce him to notice the obnoxious decree, till he has, in
the first place, received it under all the official forms--in the next
place, written his remonstrance to the government at home--and, in the
third place, received an answer.  Now, all this will take some time.  In
three days, we deputies shall begin our session; and never were the
members of any assembly more united in their will and in their views,
and therefore more powerful.  We meet for the express purpose of
neutralising the effects of this ill-judged decree; we have the power--
we have the will--and who can doubt the results?  The management of this
colony has always succeeded well in the hands of the whites; they have
made its laws, and enforced them--they have allowed the people of colour
liberty to pursue their own business, and acquire property if they
could, conscious of strength to restrain their excesses, if occasion
should arise: and, as for the negro population, where in the world were
affairs ever on a better footing between the masters and their force
than in the colony of Saint Domingo?  If all has worked so well
hitherto, is it to be supposed that an ignorant shout in the National
Assembly, and a piece of paper sent over to us thence, can destroy the
harmony, and overthrow the prosperity which years have confirmed?  I,
for one, will never believe it.  I see before me in my colleagues men to
whom the tranquillity of the colony may be safely confided; and over
their heads, and beyond the wise laws they are about to pass for the
benefit of both the supreme and subordinate interests of our community.
I see, stretching beyond the reach of living eye, a scene of calm and
fruitful prosperity in which our children's children may enjoy their
lives, without a thought of fear or apprehension of change.  Regarding
Governor Blanchelande as one of the chief securities of this our long
tenure of social prosperity, I beg to propose, not only that we shall
now drink his health, but that we shall meet annually in his honour on
this day.  Yonder is Government-House.  If we open our jalousies wide
enough, and give the honours loudly enough, perhaps our voices may reach
his ears, as the loyal greeting that he deserves."

"Do not you smell smoke?" asked Bayou of his neighbour, as the blinds
were thrown open.

"What a smell of burning!" observed the chairman to Odeluc at the same
moment.

"They are burning field-trash outside the town, no doubt," Odeluc
answered.  "We choose the nights when there is little wind, you know,
for that work."

There was a small muster of soldiers round the gates of
Government-House, and several people in the streets, when the honours
were given to the Governor's name.  But the first seemed not to hear,
and the others did not turn their heads.  The air that came in was so
hot, that the blinds were immediately ordered to be closed again.  The
waiters, however, seemed to have lost their obsequiousness, and many
orders and oaths were spent upon them before they did their duty.

While the other gentlemen sat down, a young man remained standing, his
eyes flashing, and his countenance heated, either by wine, or by the
thoughts with which he seemed big.

"My fellow-citizens," said Monsieur Brelle, beginning in a very loud
voice, "agreeing as I do in my hopes for this colony with Monsieur
Odeluc, and, like him, trusting in the protection and blessing of a just
Providence, which will preserve our rights, and chastise those who would
infringe them--feeling thus, and thus trusting, there is a duty for me
to perform.  My friends, we must not permit the righteous chastisements
of Providence to pass by unheeded, and be forgotten.  The finger of
Providence has been among us, to mark out and punish the guilty
disturber of our peace.  But, though dead, that guilty traitor has not
ceased to disturb our peace.  Do we not know that his groans have moved
our enemies in the National Assembly; that his ashes have been stirred
up there, to shed their poison over our names?  It becomes us, in
gratitude to a preserving Providence, in fidelity to that which is
dearer to us than life--our fair fame--in regard to the welfare of our
posterity, it becomes us to mark our reprobation of treason and
rebellion, and to perpetuate in ignominy the name of the rebel and the
traitor.  Fill your glasses, then, gentlemen, and drink--drink deep with
me--Our curse on the memory of Vincent Oge!"

Several members of the company eagerly filled their glasses; others
looked doubtfully towards the chair.  Before Dr Protean seemed to have
made up his mind what to do, Monsieur Papalier had risen, saying, in a
rather low and conversational tone--

"My young friend will allow me to suggest to him the expediency of
withdrawing his toast, as one in which his fellow-citizens cannot all
cordially join.  We all unite, doubtless, in reprobating treason and
rebellion in the person of Oge; but I, for one, cannot think it good,
either in taste or in policy, to curse the memory of the dead in the
hearing of those who desire mercy for their fallen enemies (as some here
present do), or of others who look upon Oge as no criminal, but a
martyr--which is, I fear, the case with too many outside."  He pointed
to the windows as he spoke, where it now appeared that the jalousies had
been pushed a little open, so as to allow opportunity for some
observation from without.  Monsieur Papalier lowered his tone, so as to
be heard, during the rest of his speech, only by those who made every
effort to catch his words.  Not a syllable could be heard in the
orchestra outside, or even by the waiters ranged against the wall; and
the chairman and others at the extremities of the table were obliged to
lean forwards to catch the meaning of the speaker, who proceeded--

"No one more heartily admires the spirit and good-humour of our friend,
Monsieur Odeluc, than myself: no one more enjoys being animated by the
hilarity of his temper, and carried away by the hopeful enthusiasm which
makes him the dispenser of happiness that he is.  But I cannot always
sympathise in his bright anticipations.  I own I cannot to-day.  He may
be right.  God grant he be so!  But I cannot take Monsieur Odeluc's word
for it, when words so different are spoken elsewhere.  There are
observers at a distance--impartial lookers-on, who predict (and I fear
there are signs at home which indicate) that our position is far from
secure--our prospects far other than serene.  There are those who
believe that we are in danger from other foes than the race of Oge; and
facts have arisen--but enough.  This is not the time and place for
discussion of that point.  Suffice it now that, as we all know,
observers at a distance can often see deeper and farther than those
involved in affairs; and that Mirabeau has said--and what Mirabeau says
is, at least, worth attention--Mirabeau has said of us, in connection
with the events of last October, `They are sleeping on the margin of
Vesuvius, and the first jets of the volcano are not sufficient to awaken
them.'  In compliment to Mirabeau," he concluded, smiling, and bowing to
Monsieur Brelle, "if not in sympathy with what he may think my needless
caution, I hope my young friend will reserve his wine for the next
toast."

Monsieur Brelle bowed, rather sulkily.  No one seemed ready at the
moment to start a new subject.  Some attacked Monsieur Papalier in
whispers for what he had said; and he to defend himself, told, also in
whispers, facts of the murder of a bailiff on an estate near his own,
and of suspicious circumstances attending it, which made him and others
apprehend that all was not right among the negroes.  His facts and
surmises went round.  As, in the eagerness of conversation, a few words
were occasionally spoken aloud, some of the party glanced about to see
if the waiters were within earshot.  They were not.  There was not a
negro in the apartment.  The band had gone out unnoticed; to refresh
themselves, no doubt.

Odeluc took the brief opportunity to state his confidence that all
doubts of the fidelity of the negroes were groundless.  He agreed with
Monsieur Papalier that the present was not the time and place for
entering at large into the subject.  He would only just say that he was
now an old man, that he had spent his life among the people alluded to,
and knew them well, if any man did.  They were revengeful, certainly,
upon occasion, if harshly treated; but, otherwise, and if not corrupted
by ignorant demagogues and designing agents, they were the most
tractable and attached people on earth.  He was confident that the
masters in Saint Domingo had nothing to fear.

He was proceeding; but he perceived that the band was re-entering the
orchestra, and he sat down abruptly.

The chairman now discovered that it had grown very dark, and called out
for lights.  His orders were echoed by several of the party, who hoped
that the lights would revive some of the spirit of the evening, which
had become very flat.

While waiting for lights, the jalousies were once more opened, by orders
from the chair.  The apartment was instantly pervaded by a dull,
changeful, red light, derived from the sky, which glowed above the trees
of the Jesuits' Walk with the reflection of extensive fires.  The guests
were rather startled, too, by perceiving that the piazza was crowded
with heads; and that dusky faces, in countless number, were looking in
upon them, and had probably been watching them for some time past.  With
the occasional puffs of wind, which brought the smell of burning, came a
confused murmur, from a distance, as of voices, the tramp of many horses
in the sand, and a multitude of feet in the streets.  This was
immediately lost in louder sounds.  The band struck up, unbidden, with
all its power, the Marseillaise Hymn; and every voice in the piazza,
and, by degrees, along the neighbouring streets and square, seemed to
join in singing the familiar words--

  "Allons enfants de la patrie,
  Le jour de gloire est arrive."

The consternation of the deputies and their guests was extreme.  Every
man showed his terror in his own way; but one act was universal.  Each
one produced arms of one sort or another.  Even Odeluc, it appeared, had
not come unarmed.  While they were yet standing in groups about the
table, the door burst open, and a negro, covered with dust and panting
with haste, ran in and made for the head of the table, thrusting himself
freely through the parties of gentlemen.  The chairman, at sight of the
man, turned pale, recoiled for a moment, and then, swearing a deep oath,
drew the short sword he wore, and ran the negro through the body.

"Oh, master!" cried the poor creature, as his life ebbed out in the
blood which inundated the floor.

The act was not seen by those outside, as there was a screen of persons
standing between the tables and the windows.  To this accident it was
probably owing that the party survived that hour, and that any order was
preserved in the town.

"Shame, Proteau! shame!" said Odeluc, as he bent down, and saw that the
negro was dying.  Papalier, Bayou, and a few more, cried "Shame!" also;
while others applauded.

"I will defend my deed," said Proteau, struggling with the hoarseness of
his voice, and pouring out a glass of wine to clear his throat.  His
hand was none of the steadiest as he did so.  "Hush that band!  There is
no hearing oneself speak.  Hush!  I say; stop!" and swearing, he
passionately shook his fist at the musicians, who were still making the
air of the Marseillaise peal through the room.  They instantly stopped,
and departed.

"There! you have sent them out to tell what you have done," observed a
deputy.

"I will defend my deed," Proteau repeated, when he had swallowed the
wine, "I am confident the negroes have risen.  I am confident the fellow
came with bad intent."

"_No_ fear but the negroes will rise, anywhere in the world, where they
have such as you for masters," said Odeluc.

"What do you mean, sir?" cried Proteau, laying his hand on the hilt of
his dripping sword.

"I mean what I say.  And I will tell you, too, what I do not mean.  I do
not mean to fight to-night with any white: and least of all with one who
is standing in a pool of innocent blood, of his own shedding."  And he
pointed to Proteau's feet, which were indeed soaked with the blood of
his slave.

"Hush! hush! gentlemen!" cried several voices.  "Here is more news!"

"Hide the body!" said Bayou, and as he spoke he stooped to lift it.
Monsieur Brelle made shorter work.  He rolled it over with his foot, and
kicked it under the table.  It was out of sight before the master of the
hotel entered, followed by several negroes from the plain, to say that
the "force" had risen on several plantations, had dismantled the mills,
burned the sugar-houses, set fire to the crops, murdered the overseers,
and, he feared, in some cases, the proprietors.

"Where?"  "Whose estates?"  "What proprietors?" asked every voice
present.

"Where did it begin?" was the question the landlord applied himself
first to answer.

"It broke out on the Noe estate, sir.  They murdered the refiner and his
apprentice, and carried off the surgeon.  They left another young man
for dead; but he got away, and told the people on the next plantation;
but it was too late then.  They had reached Monsieur Clement's by that
time, and raised his people.  They say Monsieur Clement is killed; but
some of his family escaped.  They are here in the town, I believe."

Some of the deputies now snatched their hats, and went out to learn
where the fugitives were, and thus to get information, if possible, at
first hand.

"All is safe in our quarter, at present, I trust," said Papalier to
Bayou; "but shall we be gone?  Your horse is here, I suppose.  We can
ride together."

"In a moment.  Let us hear all we can first," replied Bayou.

"Do you stay for that purpose, then, and look to our horses.  I will
learn what the Governor's orders are, and come here for you presently."
And Papalier was gone.

When Bayou turned to listen again, Odeluc was saying--

"Impossible! incredible!  Gallifet's force risen!  Not they?  They would
be firm if the world were crushed flat.  Why, they love me as if I were
their father!"

"Nevertheless, sir, you owe your safety to being my guest," said the
landlord, with a bow as polite as on the most festive occasion.  "I am
happy that my roof should--"

"Who brought this report?" cried Odeluc.  "Who can give news of
Gallifet's negroes?"  And he looked among the black faces which were
clustered behind the landlord.  No one spoke thence; but a voice from
the piazza said--

"Gallifet's force has risen.  The canes are all on fire."

"I will bring them to their senses," said Odeluc, with sudden quietness.
"I have power over them.  The Governor will give me a handful of men
from the town guard, and we shall set things straight before morning.
The poor fellows have been carried away, while I was not there to stand
by them--but making speeches here, like a holiday fool!  I will bring
them to their senses presently.  Make way, friends--make way."

And Odeluc stepped out among the blacks on the piazza, that being the
shortest way to Government-House.

"I hope he is not too confident," whispered a town deputy to a friend
from the south.  "But this is bad news.  Gallifet's plantation is the
largest in the plain, and only eight miles off."

A sort of scream, a cry of horror, from one who stood close by, stopped
the deputy.

"Boirien! what is the matter?" cried a deputy, as Boirien hid his face
with his arms upon the table, and a strong shudder shook his whole
frame.

"Do not speak to him!  I will tell you," said another.  "Oh, this is
horrible!  They have murdered his brother-in-law on Flaville's estate,
and carried off his sister and her three daughters into the woods.
Something must be done directly.  Boirien, my poor fellow, I am going to
the Governor.  Soldiers shall be sent to bring your sister into the
town.  We shall have her here before morning; and you must bring her and
her family to my house."

No one could endure to stay and hear more.  Some went to learn elsewhere
the fate of those in whom they were interested.  Some went to offer
their services to the Governor; some to barricade their own houses in
the town; some to see whether it was yet possible to entrench their
plantations.  Some declared their intention of conveying the ladies of
their families to the convent; the place always hitherto esteemed safe,
amidst all commotions.  It soon appeared, however, that this was not the
opinion of the sisters themselves, on the present occasion, nor of the
authorities of the town; for the muffled nuns were seen hurrying down to
the quay, under the protection of soldiers, in order to take refuge on
board the vessels in the bay.  All night long, boats were plying in the
harbour, conveying women, children, plate, and money, on board the ships
which happened to be in the roads.

The landlord would have been glad of the help of any of his guests, in
clearing his house; but they had no sympathy to spare--no time to think
of his plate and wines.  As the whites disappeared from the room, the
blacks poured in.  They allowed the landlord to sweep away his plate,
but they laid hands on the wines; and many a smart speech, and many a
light laugh, resounded within those walls till morning, while
consternation reigned without.  When these thoughtless creatures
sauntered to their several homes in the sunrise, they found that such of
their fellow-servants as they had been accustomed to look up to, as
abler and more trusted than themselves, had disappeared, and no one
would tell whither they were gone--only that they were quite safe.

When Monsieur Papalier returned to the hotel, from his cruise for
information, he found his neighbour Bayou impatiently waiting on
horseback, while Henri, still in his white apron, was holding the other
horse.

"Here, sir--mount, and let us be off," cried Bayou.  "We owe it to my
friend Henri, here, that we have our horses.  The gentlemen from the
country very naturally took the first that came to hand to get home
upon.  They say Leroy is gone home on a dray-mule.  I rather expect to
meet Toussaint on the road.  If he sees the fires, he will be coming to
look after me."

"He cannot well help seeing the fires," replied Papalier.  "They are
climbing up the mountain-side, all the way along the Haut du Cap.  We
shall be singed like two porkers, if we do not ride like two devils; and
then we shall be lucky if we do not meet two thousand devils by the
way."

"Do you suppose the road is safe, Henri?" asked Bayou.  "I know you will
tell me truth."

"Indeed, master, I know nothing," replied Henri.  "You say you shall
meet Toussaint.  I will ride with you till you meet him, if you will.
Our people all know him and me."

"Do so, Henri.  Do not wait to look for another horse.  Jump up behind
me.  Mine is a strong beast, and will make no difficulty, even of your
weight.  Never mind your apron.  Keep it for a flag of truce, in case we
meet the enemy."

They were off, and presently emerged from the comparative darkness of
the streets into the light of the fires.  None of the three spoke,
except to urge on the horses up the steep, sandy road, which first
presented an ascent from the town, and then a descent to the plain,
before it assumed the level which it then preserved to the foot of the
opposite mountains, nearly fifty miles off.  No one appeared on the
road; and the horsemen had, therefore, leisure to cast glances behind
them, as they were slowly carried up the ascent.  The alarm-bell was now
sending its sullen sounds of dismay far and wide in the air, whose
stillness was becoming more and more disturbed by the draughts of the
spreading fires, as the canes caught, like torches, up the slopes to the
right.  Pale twinkling lights, sprinkled over the cape and the
harbour-lights which looked like glow-worm tapers amidst the fiery
atmosphere, showed that every one was awake and stirring in the town,
and on board the ships; while an occasional rocket, mounting in the
smoky air, from either the Barracks or Government-House, showed that it
was the intention of the authorities to intimate to the inhabitants of
the remoter districts of the plain that the Government was on the alert,
and providing for the public safety.

On surmounting the ridge, Henri stretched out his hand, and pulled the
bridle of Monsieur Bayou's horse to the left, so as to turn it into a
narrow, green track which here parted from the road.

"What now, sir?" cried Papalier, in a tone of suspicion, checking his
horse, instead of following.

"You may, perhaps, meet two thousand devils, if you keep the high road
to the plain," answered Henri, quietly.  To Monsieur Bayou he explained
that Toussaint would probably choose this road, through Madame Oge's
plantation.

"Come on, Papalier; do not lose time.  All is right enough," said Bayou.
"The grass-tracks are the safest to-night, depend upon it."

Papalier followed, in discontented silence.  In a few moments, Henri
again pulled the bridle--a decided check this time--stopping the horse.

"Voices," he whispered.  Bayou could hear none.  In a moment, Henri
continued.

"It is Toussaint, I thought we should meet him hereabouts."

The next turn of the path brought them upon Toussaint, who was advancing
with the led horse from Breda.  Not far behind him was Madame Oge's
house, the door standing wide, and, seen by the light within, a woman in
the doorway.  Toussaint pulled up, Henri leaped down, and ran to shake
hands with his friend.  Papalier took the opportunity to say, in a low
voice, to Bayou--

"You must send your fellow there on board ship.  You must, there is no
doubt of it.  The Governor, and all the householders in Cap, are doing
so with their cleverest negroes; and if there is a clever one in the
colony, it is Toussaint."

"I shall do no such thing," said Bayou.  "I have trusted Toussaint for
these thirty years; and I shall not distrust him now--now when we most
need those we can best confide in."

"That is exactly what Monsieur Clement said of his postillion; and it
was his postillion that struck him to the heart.  You must send
Toussaint on board ship; and I will tell you how--"

Papalier stopped, perceiving that the two negroes were not talking, but
had their eyes fixed on him.

"What is that?" said Henri.  "Is Toussaint to go on board ship?"

"No, no; nonsense," said Bayou; "I am not going to send anybody on board
ship.  All quiet at Breda, I suppose, Toussaint?"

"All quiet, sir, at present.  Monsieur Papalier--on board ship I will
not go."

"As your master pleases.  It is no concern of mine, Toussaint," said
Papalier.

"So I think," replied Toussaint.

"You see your faithful hands, your very obedient friends, have got a
will of their own already," whispered Papalier to Bayou, as they set
their horses forward again: Henri turning homewards on the tired horse
which had carried double, and Bayou mounting that which Toussaint had
brought.

"Will you go round, or pass the house?"  Toussaint asked of his master.
"Madame Oge is standing in the doorway."

Bayou was about to turn his horse's head, but the person in the doorway
came out into the darkness, and called him by his name.  He was obliged
to go forward.

"Madame," said he, "I hope you have no trouble with your people.  I hope
your people are all steady."

"Never mind me and my people," replied a tremulous voice.  "What I want
to know is, what has happened at Cap.  Who have risen?  Whose are these
fires?"

"The negroes have risen on a few plantations: that is all.  We shall
soon--"

"The negroes!" echoed the voice.  "You are sure it is only the negroes?"

"Only the negroes, madame.  Can I be of service to you?  If you have any
reason to fear that your force--"

"I have no reason to fear anything.  I will not detain you.  No doubt
you are wanted at home, Monsieur Bayou."

And she re-entered her house, and closed the doors.

"How you have disappointed her!" said Papalier.  "She hoped to hear that
her race had risen, and were avenging her sons on us.  I am thankful
to-night," he continued, after a pause, "that my little girls are at
Paris.  How glad might that poor woman have been, if her sons had stayed
there!  Strange enough, Paris is called the very centre of disorder, and
yet it seems the only place for our sons and daughters in these days."

"And strangely enough," said Bayou, "I am glad that I have neither wife,
son, nor daughter.  I felt that, even while Odeluc, was holding forth
about the age of security which we were now entering upon--I felt at the
moment that there must be something wrong; that all could not be right,
when a man feels glad that he has only himself to take care of.  Our
negroes are better off than we, so far.  Hey, Toussaint?"

"I think so, sir."

"How many wives and children have you, Toussaint?" asked Papalier.

"I have five children, sir."

"And how many wives in your time?"

Toussaint made no answer.  Bayou said for him--

"He has such a good wife that he never wanted more.  He married her when
he was five-and-twenty--did not you, Toussaint?"

Toussaint had dropped into the rear.  His master observed that Toussaint
was rather romantic, and did not like jesting on domestic affairs.  He
was more prudish about such matters than whites fresh from the
mother-country.  Whether he had got it out of his books, or whether it
really was a romantic attachment to his wife, there was no knowing; but
he was quite unlike his race generally in family matters.

"Does he take upon himself to be scandalised at us?" asked Papalier.

"I do not ask him.  But if you like to consult him about your Therese, I
do not doubt he will tell you his mind."

"Come, cannot we go on faster?  This is a horrid road, to be sure; but
poor Therese will think it is all over with me, if she looks at the red
sky towards Cap."

There were reasons enough for alarm about Monsieur Papalier's safety,
without looking over towards Cap.  When the gentlemen arrived at Arabie,
his plantation, they found the iron gates down, and lying on the grass--
young trees hewn down, as if for bludgeons--the cattle couched in the
cane-fields, lapped in the luxury of the sweet tops and sprouts--the
doors of the sugar-house and mansion removed, the windows standing wide,
and no one to answer call.  The slave-quarter also was evidently
deserted.

Papalier clapped spurs to his horse, and rode round, faster than his
companions could follow him.  At length Bayou intercepted his path at a
sharp turn, caught his bridle, and said--

"My dear fellow, come with me.  There is nothing to be done here.  Your
people are all gone; and if they come back, they will only cut your
throat.  You must come with me; and under the circumstances, I cannot
stay longer.  I ought to be at home."

"True, true.  Go, and I will follow.  I must find out whether they have
carried off Therese.  I must, and I will."

Toussaint pricked his horse into the courtyard, and after a searching
look around dragged out from behind the well a young negress who had
been crouching there, with an infant in her arms.  She shrieked and
struggled till she saw Papalier, when she rushed towards him.

"Poor Therese!" cried he, patting her shoulder.  "How we have frightened
you!  There is nobody here but friends.  At least, so it seems.  Where
are all the people?  And who did this mischief?"

The young creature trembled excessively; and her terror marred for the
time a beauty which was celebrated all over the district--a beauty which
was admitted as fully by the whites as by people of her own race.  Her
features were now convulsed by fear, as she told what had happened--that
a body of negroes had come, three hours since, and had summoned
Papalier's people to meet at Latour's estate, where all the force of the
plain was to unite before morning--that Papalier's people made no
difficulty about going, only stopping to search the house for what arms
and ammunition might be there, and to do the mischief which now
appeared--that she believed the whites at the sugar-house must have
escaped, as she had seen and heard nothing of bloodshed--and that this
was all she knew, as she had hidden herself and her infant, first in one
place, and then in another, as she fancied safest, hoping that nobody
would remember her, which seemed to have been the case, as no one
molested her till Toussaint saw her, and terrified her as they
perceived.  She had not looked in his face, but supposed that some of
Latour's people had come back for her.

"Now you will come with me," said Bayou to Papalier, impatiently.

"I will, thank you.  Toussaint, help her up behind me, and carry the
child, will you?  Hold fast, Therese, and leave off trembling as soon as
you can."

Therese would let no one carry the infant but herself.  She kept her
seat well behind her master, though still trembling when she alighted at
the stables at Breda.

Placide and Denis were on the watch at the stables.

"Run, Denis!" said his brother.  And Denis was off to tell his mother
that Toussaint and Monsieur Bayou were safe home.

"Anything happened, Placide?" asked Bayou.

"Yes, sir.  The people were sent for to Latour's, and most of them are
gone.  Not all, sir.  Saxe would not go till he saw father; nor Cassius,
nor Antoine, nor--"

"Is there any mischief done?  Anybody hurt?"

"No, sir.  They went off very quietly."

"Quietly, indeed!  They take quietly enough all the kindness I have
shown them these thirty years.  They quietly take the opportunity of
leaving me alone to-night, of all nights, when the devils from hell are
abroad, scattering their fire as they go."

"If you will enter, Monsieur Bayou," said Toussaint, "my wife will get
you supper; and the boys and I will collect the people that are left,
and bring them up to the house.  They have not touched your arms, sir.
If you will have them ready for us--"

"Good, good!  Papalier, we cannot do better.  Come in.  Toussaint, take
home this young woman.  Your girls will take care of her.  Eh! what's
the matter?  Well, put her where you will--only let her be taken care
of--that is all."

"I will speak to Jeannette, sir."

"Ay, do.  Jeannette will let Therese come to no harm, Papalier.  Come
in, till Toussaint brings a report of how matters stand with us poor
masters."



CHAPTER THREE.

WHAT TO DO!

The report brought by Toussaint was astounding to his hearers, even
after the preparation afforded by the events of the evening.  It was
clear that the negroes had everything in their own hand, and that the
spirit roused in them was so fierce, so revengeful, as to leave no hope
that they would use their power with moderation.  The Breda estate, and
every one near it, was to be ravaged when those on the north side of the
plain were completely destroyed.  The force assembled at Latour's
already amounted to four thousand; and no assistance could be looked for
from the towns at all adequate to meet such numbers, since the persons
and property of the whites, hourly accumulating in the towns as the
insurrection spread, required more than all the means of protection that
the colony afforded.  The two gentlemen agreed, as they sat at the table
covered with supper, wine, and glittering arms, that to remain was to
risk their lives with no good object.  It was clear that they must fly.

Toussaint suggested that a quantity of sugar from the Breda estate was
now at Port Paix, lying ready for shipment.  There was certainly one
vessel, if not more, in that port, belonging to the United States.  If
the gentlemen would risk the ride to the coast with him, he thought he
could put them on board, and they might take with them this sugar,
intended for France, but now wanted for their subsistence in their
exile.  Bayou saw at once that this was the best plan he could adopt.
Papalier was unwilling to turn his back so soon, and so completely, on
his property.  Bayou was only attorney to the Breda estate, and had no
one but himself to care for.  Papalier was a proprietor, and he could
not give up at once, and for ever, the lands which his daughters should
inherit after him.  He could not instantly decide upon this.  He would
wait some hours at least.  He thought he could contrive to get into some
town, or into the Spanish territory, though he might be compelled to
leave the plain.  He slept for this night with his arms at hand, and
under the watch of Placide, who might be trusted to keep awake and
listen, as his father vouched for him.  Bayou was gone presently; with
such little money as he happened to have in the house; and in his
pockets, the gold ornaments which Toussaint's wife insisted on his
accepting, and which were not to be despised in this day of his
adversity.  He was sorry to take her necklace and ear-rings, which were
really valuable; but she said, truly, that he had been a kind master for
many years, and ought to command what they had, now that they were all
in trouble together.

Before the next noon, Monsieur Bayou was on board the American vessel in
the harbour of Port Paix, weary and sad, but safe, with his sugar, and
pocketsful of cash and gold trinkets.  Before evening, Toussaint, who
rode like the wind, and seemed incapable of fatigue, was cooling himself
under a tamarind-tree, in a nook of the Breda estate.

He was not there to rest himself, while the world seemed to be falling
into chaos around him.  He was there for the duty of the hour--to meet
by appointment the leader of the insurgents, Jean Francais, whom, till
now, he had always supposed to be his friend, as far as their
intercourse went, though Jean had never been so dear to him as Henri.
He had not sat long, listening for sounds of approach amidst the clatter
of the neighbouring palm-tree tops, whose stiff leaves struck one
another as they waved in the wind, when Jean appeared from behind the
mill.

"You have stopped our wheel," said Toussaint, pointing to the reeking
water-mill.  "It will be cracked in the sun before you can set it going
again."

"Yes, we have stopped all the mills," replied Jean.  "Every stream in
the colony has a holiday to-day, and may frolic as it likes.  I am
afraid I made you wait supper last night?"

"You gave me poison, Jean.  You have poisoned my trust in my friends.  I
watched for you as for a friend; and what were you doing the while?  You
were rebelling, ravaging, and murdering!"

"Go on," said Jean.  "Tell me how it appears to you; and then I will
tell you how it appears to me."

"It appears to me, then, that if the whites are to blame towards those
who are in their power--if they have been cruel to the Oges, and their
party--if they have oppressed their negroes, as they too often have, our
duty is clear--to bear and forbear, to do them good in return for their
evil.  To rise against them cunningly, to burn their plantations, and
murder them--to do this is to throw back the gospel in the face of Him
who gave it!"

"But you do not understand this rising.  It is not for revenge."

"Why do I not understand it.  Because you knew that I should disapprove
it, and kept me at home by a false appointment, that I might be out of
the way.  Do you say all this is not for revenge?  I look at the hell
you have made of this colony between night and morning, and I say that
if this be not from revenge, there must be something viler than revenge
in the hearts of devils and of men."

"And now, hear me," said Jean, "for I am wanted at Latour's, and my time
is short.  It was no false appointment last night.  I was on my way to
you, when I was stopped by some news which altered our plans in a
moment, and made us rise sooner, by three days, than we expected.  I was
coming to tell you all, and engage you to be one of our chiefs.  Have
you heard that the _Calypso_ has put into port at the other end of the
island?"

"No."

"Then you do not know the news she brought.  She has a royalist master,
who is in no hurry to tell his news to the revolutionary whites.  The
king and all his family tried to escape from France in June.  They were
overtaken on the road, and brought back prisoners to Paris."

Toussaint, who always uncovered his head at the name of the king, now
bent it low in genuine grief.

"Is it not true," said Jean, "that our masters are traitors?  Do they
not insult and defy the king?  Would there not have been one shout of
joy through all Cap last night, if this news had been brought to the
deputies after dinner with their wine?"

"It is true.  But they would still have been less guilty than those who
add ravage and murder to rebellion."

"There was no stopping the people when the messengers from the _Calypso_
crossed the frontier, and sent the cry, `Vive le Roi! et l'ancien
regime,' through the negro quarters of every estate they reached.  The
people were up on the Noe plantation at the word.  Upon my honour, the
glare of the fire was the first I knew about it.  Then the spirit spread
among our people, like the flames among our masters' canes.  I like
murder no better than you, Toussaint; but when once slaves are up, with
knife and firebrand, those may keep revenge from kindling who can--I
cannot."

"At least, you need not join--you can oppose yourself to it."

"I have not joined.  I have saved three or four whites this day by
giving them warning.  I have hidden a family in the woods, and I will
die before I will tell where they are.  I did what I could to persuade
Gallifet's people to let Odeluc and his soldiers turn back to Cap: and I
believe they would, but for Odeluc's obstinacy in coming among us.  If
he would have kept his distance, he might have been alive now.  As it
is--"

"And is he dead?--the good Odeluc?"

"There he lies; and half-a-dozen of the soldiers with him.  I am sorry,
for he always thought well of us; but he thrust himself into the danger.
One reason of my coming here now is to say that this plantation and
Arabie will be attacked to-night, and Bayou had better roost in a tree
till morning."

"My master is safe."

"Safe?  Where?"

"On the sea."

"You have saved him.  Have you--I know your love of obedience is
strong--have you pledged yourself to our masters, to oppose the rising--
to fight on their side?"

"I give no pledges but to my conscience.  And I have no party where both
are wrong.  The whites are revengeful, and rebel against their king; and
the blacks are revengeful, and rebel against their masters."

"Did you hear anything on the coast of the arrival of the _Blonde_
frigate from Jamaica?"

"Yes; there again is more treason.  The whites at Cap have implored the
English to take possession of the colony.  First traitors to the king,
they would now join the enemies of their country.  Fear not, Jean, that
I would defend the treason of such; but I would not murder them."

"What do you mean to do? this very night your estate will be attacked.
Your family is almost the only one remaining on it.  Have you thought
what you will do?"

"I have; and your news only confirms my thought."

"You will not attempt to defend the plantation?"

"What would my single arm do?  It would provoke revenge which might
otherwise sleep."

"True.  Let the estate be deserted, and the gates and doors left wide,
and no mischief may be done.  Will you join us then?"

"Join you! no!  Not till your loyalty is free from stain.  Not while you
fight for your king with a cruelty from which your king would recoil."

"You will wait," said Jean, sarcastically, "till we have conquered the
colony for the king.  That done you will avow your loyalty."

"Such is not my purpose, Jean," replied Toussaint, quietly.  "You have
called me your friend; but you understand me no more than if I were your
enemy.  I will help to conquer the colony for the king; but it shall be
to restore to him its lands as the King of kings gave them to him--not
ravaged and soaked in blood, but redeemed with care, to be made fair and
fruitful, as held in trust for him.  I shall join the Spaniards, and
fight for my king with my king's allies."

Jean was silent, evidently struck with the thought.  If he had been
troubled with speculations as to what he should do with his
undisciplined, half-savage forces, after the whites should have been
driven to entrench themselves in the towns, it is possible that this
idea of crossing the Spanish line, and putting himself and his people
under the command of these allies, might be a welcome relief to his
perplexity.

"And your family," said he: "will the Spaniards receive our women and
children into their camp?"

"I shall not ask them.  I have a refuge in view for my family."

"When will you go?"

"When you leave me.  You will find the estate deserted this night, as
you wish.  The few negroes who are here will doubtless go with me; and
we shall have crossed the river before morning."

"You would not object," said Jean, "to be joined on the road by some of
our negro force; on my pledge, you understand, that they will not ravage
the country."

"Some too good for your present command?" said Toussaint, smiling.  "I
will command them on one other condition--that they will treat well any
white who may happen to be with me."

"I said nothing about your commanding them," said Jean.  "If I send men
I shall send officers.  But whites! what whites?  Did you not say Bayou
was on the sea?"

"I did; but there may be other whites whom I choose to protect, as you
say you are doing.  If, instead of hiding whites in the woods, I carry
them across the frontier, what treatment may I expect for my party on
the road?"

"I will go with you myself, and that is promising everything," said
Jean, making a virtue of what was before a strong inclination.  "Set out
in two hours from this time.  I will put the command of the plain into
Biasson's hands, and make a camp near the Spanish lines.  The posts in
that direction are weak, and the whites panic-struck, if indeed they
have not all fled to the fort.  Well, well," he continued, "keep to your
time, and I will join you at the cross of the four roads, three miles
south of Fort Dauphin.  All will be safe that far, at least."

"If not, we have some strong arms among us," replied Toussaint.  "I
believe my girls (or one of them at least) would bear arms where my
honour is at stake.  So our king is a prisoner! and we are free!  Such
are the changes which Heaven sends!"

"Ay, how do you feel, now you are free?" said Jean.  "Did you not put
your horse to a gallop when you turned your back on your old master?"

"Not a word of that, Jean.  Let us not think of ourselves.  There is
work to do for our king.  He is our task-master now."

"You are in a hurry for another master," said Jean.  "I am not tired of
being my own master yet."

"I wish you would make your people masters of themselves, Jean.  They
are not fit for power.  Heaven take it from us, by putting all power
into the hand of the king!"

"We meet by starlight," said Jean.  "I have the business of five
thousand men to arrange first; so, more of the king another time."

He leaped the nearest fence and was gone.  Toussaint rose and walked
away, with a countenance so serious, that Margot asked if there was bad
news of Monsieur Bayou.

When the family understood that the Breda estate was to be attacked this
night, there was no need to hasten their preparations for departure.  In
the midst of the hurry, Aimee consulted Isaac about an enterprise which
had occurred to her, on her father's behalf; and the result was, that
they ventured up to the house, and as far as Monsieur Bayou's
book-shelves, to bring away the volumes they had been accustomed to see
their father read.  This thought entered Aimee's mind when she saw him,
busy as he was, carefully pocket the Epictetus he had been reading the
night before.  Monsieur Papalier was reading, while Therese was making
packages of comforts for him.  He observed the boy and girl, and when he
found that the books they took were for their father, he muttered over
the volume he held--

"Bayou was a fool to allow it.  I always told him so.  When our negroes
get to read like so many gentlemen, no wonder the world is turned upside
down."

"Do your negroes read, Monsieur Papalier?" asked Isaac.

"No, indeed! not one of them."

"Where are they all, then?"

Aimee put in her word.

"Why do they not take care of you, as father did of Monsieur Bayou?"



CHAPTER FOUR.

WHITHER AWAY?

Monsieur Papalier did not much relish the idea of roosting in a tree for
the night; especially as, on coming down in the morning, there would be
no friend or helper near, to care for or minister to him.  Habitually
and thoroughly as he despised the negroes, he preferred travelling in
their company to hiding among the monkeys; and he therefore decided at
once to do as Toussaint concluded he would--accompany him to the Spanish
frontier.

The river Massacre, the boundary at the north between the French and
Spanish portions of the island, was about thirty miles distant from
Breda.  These thirty miles must be traversed between sunset and sunrise.
Three or four horses, and two mules which were left on the plantation,
were sufficient for the conveyance of the women, boys, and girls; and
Placide ran, of his own accord, to Monsieur Papalier's deserted stables,
and brought thence a saddled horse for the gentleman, who was less able
than the women to walk thirty miles in the course of a tropical summer's
night.

"What will your Spanish friends think of our bringing so many women and
children to their post?" said Papalier to Toussaint, as soon as they
were on their way.  "They will not think you worth having, with all the
incumbrances you carry."

"I shall carry none," said Toussaint.

"What do you mean to do with your wife and children?"

"I shall put them in a safe place by the way.  For your own sake,
Monsieur Papalier, I must ask you what you mean to do in the Spanish
post--republican as you are.  You know the Spaniards are allies of the
king of France."

"They are allies of France, and will doubtless receive any honourable
French gentleman," said Papalier confidently, though Toussaint's
question only echoed a doubt which he had already spoken to himself.
"You are acting so like a friend to me here, Toussaint, that I cannot
suppose you will do me mischief there, by any idle tales about the
past."

"I will not; but I hear that the Marquis d'Hermona knows the politics of
every gentleman in the colony.  If there have been any tales abroad of
speeches of yours against the king, or threats, or acts of rebellion,
the Marquis d'Hermona knows them all."

"I have taken less part in politics than most of my neighbours; and
Hermona knows that, if he knows the rest.  But what shall I do with
Therese, if your women stop short on the way?  Could you make room for
her with them?"

"Not with them, but--"

"My good fellow, this is no time for fancies.  I am sorry to see you set
your girls above their condition and their neighbours.  There is no harm
about poor Therese.  Indeed, she is very well educated; I have had her
well taught; and they might learn many things from her, if you really
wish them to be superior.  She is not a bit the worse for being a
favourite of mine; and it will be their turn soon to be somebody's
favourites, you know.  And that before long, depend upon it," he
continued, turning on his saddle to look for Genifrede and Aimee.  "They
are fine girls,--very fine girls for their age."

When he turned again, Toussaint was no longer beside his horse.  He was
at the head of the march.

"What a sulky fellow he is!" muttered the planter, with a smile.  "The
airs of these people are curious enough.  They take upon them to despise
Therese, who has more beauty than all his tribe, and almost as much
education as the learned Toussaint himself."

He called to the sulky fellow, however, and the sulky fellow came.  What
Papalier wanted to say was--

"You seem to know more of these Spaniards than I.  What will become of
Therese, if I take her among them; which, you see, you oblige me to do?"

"I proposed to her," said Toussaint, "to leave her with some of our
people near Fort Dauphin."

"Fort Egalite, you mean.  That is its present name, you know.  So you
asked her!  Why did you not speak to me about it?  It is my affair, not
hers."

"I thought it her affair.  She will not remain behind, however.  She
begged me to say nothing to you about her leaving you."

"Indeed!  I will soon settle that."  And the planter immediately
overtook the horse on which sat Therese, with her infant on her arm.
Therese smiled as she saw him coming; but the first few words he said to
her covered her face with tears.  Blinded by these tears, she guided her
horse among the tough aloes which grew along the border of the
bridle-path, and the animal stumbled, nearly jerking the infant from her
arms.  Her master let her get over the difficulty as she might, while he
rode on in the midst of the green track.

Placide disdained to ride.  He strode along, singing in a low voice,
with a package on his shoulders, and his path marked by the fireflies,
which new round his head, or settled on his woollen cap.  Isaac had made
Aimee happy by getting on her mule.  Genifrede heard from the direction
in which they were, sometimes smothered laughter, but, for the most
part, a never-ending, low murmur of voices, as if they were telling one
another interminable stories.  Genifrede never could make out what Isaac
and Aimee could be for ever talking about.  She wondered that they could
talk now, when every monkey-voice from the wood, every click of a frog
from the ponds, every buzz of insects from the citron-hedge, struck fear
into her.  She did not ask Placide to walk beside her horse; but she
kept near that on which her mother rode, behind Denis, who held a
cart-whip, which he was forbidden to crack--an accomplishment which he
had learned from the driver of the plantation.

It soon became clear that Jean had made active use of the hours since he
parted from Toussaint.  He must have sent messengers in many directions;
for, from beneath the shadow of every cacao grove, from under the
branches of many a clump of bamboos, from the recess of a ravine here--
from the mouth of a green road there, beside the brawling brook, or from
their couch among the canes, appeared negroes, singly or in groups,
ready to join the travelling party.  Among all these, there were no
women and children.  They had been safely bestowed somewhere; and these
men now regarded themselves as soldiers, going to the camp of the
allies, to serve against their old masters on behalf of the king.  "Vive
le Roi, et l'ancien regime!" was the word as each detachment joined--a
word most irritating to Papalier, who thought to himself many times
during this night, that he would have put all to hazard on his own
estate, rather than have undertaken this march, if he had known that he
was to be one of a company of negroes, gathering like the tempest in its
progress, and uttering at every turning, as if in mockery of himself,
"Vive le Roi, et l'ancien regime!"  He grew _very_ cross, while quite
sensible of the necessity of appearing in a good mood to every one--
except, indeed, poor Therese.

"We are free--this is freedom!" said Toussaint more than once as he laid
his hand on the bridle of his wife's horse, and seemed incapable, of
uttering any other words.  He looked up at the towering trees, as if
measuring with his eye the columnar palms, which appeared to those in
their shade as if crowned with stars.  He glanced into the forest with
an eye which, to Margot, appeared as if it could pierce through darkness
itself.  He raised his face in the direction of the central
mountain-peaks, round which the white lightning was exploding from
moment to moment; and Margot saw that tears were streaming on his face--
the first tears she had known him shed for years.  "We are free--this is
freedom!" he repeated, as he took off his cap; "but, thank God! we have
the king for our master now."

"You will come and see us," said she.  "We shall see you sometimes while
you are serving the king."

"Yes."  He was called away by another accession of numbers, a party of
four who ran down among them from a mountain path.  Toussaint brushed
away his unwonted tears, and went forward, hearing a well-known voice
inquire for Toussaint Breda.

"Here I am, Jacques!" he exclaimed in some surprise, as he addressed
himself to a short, stout-built young negro.  "You are the first
townsman among us, Jacques.  Where is old Dessalines?"

"Here is my master," said Jacques.

"Not the better for being a master," said the old tiler, who was himself
a negro.  "I found myself no safer than Jacques in the town; so I came
away with him, and we have been among the rocks all day, tired enough."

"Have not you a horse for him?" asked Jacques.  Toussaint stepped back,
to desire Aimee and Isaac to give up their mule to Dessalines; but
before it was done, Dessalines was mounted on Papalier's horse.  Jacques
had told Papalier, on finding that he had not been walking at all, that
his horse was wanted, and Papalier had felt all the danger of refusing
to yield it up.  He was walking moodily by the side of Therese, when
Toussaint offered him the mule, which he haughtily declined.

When Dessalines was mounted, Jacques came running forward to Toussaint,
to ask and to tell much concerning their singular circumstances.

"Your party is too noisy," said he.  "The whole country is up; and I
saw, not far-off, two hours ago, a party that were bringing ammunition
from Cap.  There may be more; and, if we fall in their way, with a white
in company--"

"True, true."  And Toussaint turned back to command silence.  He told
every one that the safety of all might depend on the utmost possible
degree of quietness being observed.  He separated Isaac from Aimee, as
the only way of obtaining silence from them, and warned the merry blacks
in the rear that they must be still as death.  He and Jacques, however,
exchanged a few more words in a low whisper, as they kept in advance of
the party.

"How do they get ammunition from Cap?" asked Toussaint.  "Have they a
party in the town?  I thought the town negroes had been sent on board
ship."

"The suspected ones are.  They are the silly and the harmless who have
still wit and mischief enough to give out powder and ball slyly for the
plantation negroes.  Once over the river, what will you do with your
party?"

"My wife and children will be safe with my brother Paul--you know he
fishes on the coast, opposite the Seven Brothers.  I shall enter the
Spanish ranks; and every one else here will do as he thinks proper."

"Do not you call yourself a commander, then!  Why do you not call us
your regiment, and take the command as a matter of course, as Jean has
done?"

"If it is desired, I am ready.  Hark!"

There was evidently a party at some distance, numerous and somewhat
noisy, and on  the approach from behind.  Toussaint halted his party,
quickly whispered his directions, and withdrew them with all speed and
quietness within the black shade of a cacao-plantation, on the left of
the road.  They had to climb an ascent; but there they found a green
recess, so canopied with interwoven branches that no light could enter
from the stars, and so hedged in by the cacao plants, growing twelve
feet high among the trees, that the party could hardly have been seen
from the road in broad daylight.  There they stood crowded together in
utter darkness and stillness, unless, as Genifrede feared, the beating
of her heart might be heard above the hum of the mosquito, or the
occasional rustle of the foliage.

The approaching troop came on, tramping, and sometimes singing and
shouting.  Those in the covert knew not whether most to dread a shouting
which should agitate their horses, or a silence which might betray a
movement on their part.  This last seemed the most probable.  The noise
subsided; and when the troop was close at hand, only a stray voice or
two was singing.  They had with them two or three trucks, drawn by men,
on which were piled barrels of ammunition.  They were now very near.
Whether it was that Therese, in fear of her infant crying, pressed it so
close to her bosom as to awaken it, or whether the rumbling and tramping
along the road roused its sleeping ear--the child stirred, and began
what promised to be a long shrill wawl, if it had not been stopped.  How
it was stopped, the trembling, sickening mother herself did not know.
She only knew that a strong hand wrenched the child from her grasp in
the black darkness, and that all was still, unless, as she then and ever
after had a shuddering apprehension, there was something of a slight
gurgle which reached her strained ear.  Her own involuntary moan was
stopped almost before it became a sound--stopped by a tap on the
shoulder, whose authoritative touch she well knew.

No one else stirred for long after the troop had passed.  Then Toussaint
led his wife's horse down into the road again, and the party resumed
their march as if nothing had happened.

"My child!" said Therese, fearfully.  "Give me my child!"  She looked
about, and saw that no one seemed to have the infant.

"I will not let it cry," she said.  "Give me back my child!"

"What is it?" asked Papalier, coming beside her horse.  She told her
grief, as she prepared to spring down.

"No, keep your seat!  Don't get down," said he, in a tone she dared not
disobey.  "I will inquire for the child."

He went away, and returned--without it.  "This is a sad thing," said he,
leading her horse forward with the rest.  "No one knows anything about
the poor thing.  Why did you let it go?"

"Have you asked them all?  Who snatched it from me?  Oh, ask who took
it!  Let me look for it.  I will--I will--"

"It is too late now.  We cannot stop or turn back.  These sad accidents
will happen at such times."

"Leave me behind--oh, leave me in the wood!  I can follow when I have
found it.  Leave me behind!"

"I cannot spare you, my dear.  I should never see you again; and I
cannot spare you.  It is sad enough to have lost the child."

"It was your child," said she, pleadingly.

"And you are mine too, my dear.  I cannot spare you both."

Therese had never felt before.  All that had moved her during her yet
short life--all emotions in one were nothing to the passion of this
moment--the conditional hatred that swelled her soul; conditional--for,
from moment to moment, she believed and disbelieved that Papalier had
destroyed her child.  The thought sometimes occurred that he was not the
only cruel one.  No one seemed to pity or care for her--not even Margot
or the girls came near her.  She more than once was about to seek and
appeal to them; but her master held her bridle, and would not permit her
to stop or turn, saying occasionally that the lives of all depended on
perfect quiet and order in the march.  When they arrived at the cross,
at the junction of the four roads, they halted, and there she told her
story, and was convinced that the grieved women knew nothing of her loss
till that moment.  It was too late now for anything but compassion.

Jean Francais soon appeared with a troop so numerous, that all necessity
for caution and quiet was over.  They could hardly meet an equal force
during the remainder of the march, and might safely make the forests and
ravines echo to their progress.  Jean took off his cocked hat in
saluting Toussaint, and commended his punctuality and his arrangements.

"Jean always admires what my husband does," observed Margot to her
acquaintance Jacques.  "You hear how he is praising him for what he has
done to-night."

"To be sure.  Everybody praises Toussaint Breda," replied Jacques.

The wife laughed with delight.

"Everybody praises him but me," pursued Jacques.  "I find fault with him
sometimes; and to-night particularly."

"Then you are wrong, Jacques.  You know you have everybody against you."

"Time will show that I am right.  Time will show the mischief of sending
away any whites to do us harm in far countries."

"Oh, you do not blame him for helping away Monsieur Bayou!"

"Yes, I do."

"Why, we have been under him ever since we were children--and a kind
youth he was then.  And he taught my husband to read, and made him his
coachman; and then he made him overseer; and he has always indulged the
children, and always bought my young guinea-fowl, and--"

"I know that.  All that will not prevent the mischief of helping him
away.  Toussaint ought to have seen that if we send our masters to all
the four sides of the world, they will bring the world down upon us."

"Perhaps Toussaint did see it," said the man himself, from the other
side of his wife's horse.  "But he saw another thing, too--that any
whites who stayed would be murdered."

"That is true enough; and murdered they ought to be.  They are a race of
tyrants and rebels that our warm island hates."

"Nobody hated Monsieur Bayou," said Margot.

"Yes, I did.  Every one who loves the blacks hates the whites."

"I think not," said Toussaint.  "At least, it is not so with Him who
made them both.  He is pleased with mercy, Jacques, and not with
murder."

Jacques laughed, and muttered something about the priests having been
brought in by the whites for a convenience; to which Toussaint merely
replied that it was not a priest, nor an ally of white masters, who
forgave His enemies on the cross.

"Father," said Placide, joining the group, "why is Jean commanding your
march?  He speaks to you as if you were under him."

"Because he considers it his march."

"He praised your father--very much, Placide," said his mother.

"Yes--just as if my father were under him--as if the march were not
ours.  We began it."

"I command those who began it--that is, my own family, Placide.  I
command you to obey Jean, while you are with him.  On the other side the
river, you shall be commander, all the way to your uncle's house.  You
will follow his lead, Margot?"

"Oh, yes, if he leads straight.  Jean is a commander, Placide.  Look at
his cocked hat."

"And he calls himself commander-in-chief of the armies of France."

"In Saint Domingo.  Well, so he is," said Toussaint, smiling, and
pointing to the troop.  "Here are the armies of the King of France in
Saint Domingo; and here Jean commands."

At this moment, Jean made proclamation for Toussaint Breda; and
Toussaint joined him, leaving his wife saying, "You see he wants my
husband at every turn.  I am sure he thinks a great deal of my husband."

"Toussaint," said Jean, "I shall introduce you to the Marquis d'Hermona;
and I have no doubt he will give you a command."

"I shall introduce myself to him, Jean."

"But he will be expecting you.  He will receive you according to my
report--as a man of ability, and a most valuable officer.  I sent
messengers forward to tell him of my approach with reinforcements; and I
gave a prodigious report of you."

"Still I shall speak for myself, Jean."

"What I now have to ask of you is, that you will dress like an officer--
like me.  The uniform is, on the whole, of no great consequence at this
season, when the whites wear all the linen, and as little cloth as they
can.  But the hat.  Toussaint--the hat!  You will not show yourself to
the Marquis d'Hermona in a cap!  For my sake, do not show yourself till
you have procured a cocked hat."

"Where did you get yours, Jean?"

Jean could only say that it was from one who would never want it again.

"We will go as we are," said Toussaint.  "You look like a commander, as
you are--and I look what I am, Toussaint Breda."

"But he will not believe what I shall say of you, if he sees a mere
common negro."

"Then let him disbelieve, till I have shown what I am.  We shall find
daylight on the other side this ridge."

They had been for some time ascending the ridge which lies north and
south between Fort Dauphin and the river Massacre, the Spanish boundary.
In the covert of the woods which clothed the slope all was yet
darkness; but when the travellers could catch a glimpse upwards through
the interwoven branches, they saw that the stars were growing pale, and
that the heavens were filling with a yellower light.  On emerging from
the woods on the summit of the ridge, they found that morning was indeed
come, though the sun was not yet visible.  There was a halt, as if the
troops now facing the east would wait for his appearance.  To the left,
where the ridge sank down into the sea, lay Mancenillo Bay, whose dark
grey waters, smooth as glass, as they rolled in upon the shore, began to
show lines of light along their swell.  A dim sail or two, small and
motionless, told that the fishermen were abroad.  From this bay, the
river Massacre led the eye along the plain which lay under the feet of
the troops, and between this ridge and another, darkly wooded, which
bounded the valley to the east; while to the south-east, the view was
closed in by the mass of peaks of the Cibao group of mountains.  At the
first moment, these peaks, rising eight thousand feet from the plain,
appeared hard, cold, and grey, between the white clouds that encumbered
their middle height and the kindling sky.  But from moment to moment
their aspect softened.  The grey melted into lilac, yellow, and a faint
blushing red, till the start, barren crags appeared bathed in the hues
of the soft yielding clouds which opened to let forth the sun.  The
mists were then seen to be stirring,--rising, curling, sailing, rolling,
as if the breezes were imprisoned among them, and struggling to come
forth.  The breezes came, and, as it seemed, from those peaks.  The
woods bent before them at one sweep.  The banyan-tree, a grove in
itself, trembled through all its leafy columns, and shook off its dews
in a wide circle, like the return shower of a playing fountain.  Myriads
of palms which covered the uplands, till now still as a sleeping host
beneath the stars, bowed their plumed heads as the winds went forth, and
shook off dews and slumber from the gorgeous parasitic beauties which
they sustained.  With the first ray that the sun levelled among the
woods, these matted creepers shook their flowery festoons, their twined,
green ropes, studded with opening blossoms and bells, more gay than the
burnished insects and gorgeous birds which flitted among their tangles.
In the plain, the river no longer glimmered grey through the mists, but
glittered golden among the meadows, upon which the wild cattle were
descending from the clefts of the hills.  Back to the north the river
led the eye, past the cluster of hunters' huts on the margin,--past the
post where the Spanish flag was flying, and whence the early drum was
sounding--past a slope of arrowy ferns here, a grove of lofty cocoa-nut
trees there, once more to the bay, now diamond-strewn, and rocking on
its bosom the boats, whose sails were now specks of light in contrast
with the black islets of the Seven Brothers, which caught the eye as if
just risen from the sea.

"No windmills here!  No cattle-mills!" the negroes were heard saying to
one another.  "No canes, no sugar-houses, no teams, no overseers'
houses, no overseers!  By God, it is a fine place, this!  So we are
going down there to be soldiers to the king! those cattle are wild, and
yonder are the hunters going out!  By God, it is a fine place!"

In somewhat different ways, every one present, but Papalier and Therese,
was indulging the same mood of thought.  There was a wildness in the
scene which made the heart beat high with the sense of freedom.  For
some the emotion seemed too strong.  Toussaint pointed out to his boys
the path on the other side of the river which would lead them to the
point of the shore nearest to Paul's hut, instructed them how to find or
make a habitation for their mother and sisters till he could visit them,
gave his wife a letter to his brother, and, except to bid his family a
brief farewell for a brief time, spoke no more till he reached the
Spanish post, and inquired for the General.

Jean stepped before him into the general's presence, taking possession
of the centre of the green space before the tent, where the Marquis
d'Hermona was enjoying the coolness of the morning.  After having duly
declared his own importance, and announced the accession of numbers he
was likely to bring, Jean proceeded to extol Toussaint as one of the
valuables he had brought.  After apologising for his friend's want of a
cocked hat, he proceeded to exhibit his learning, declaring that he had
studied "Plutarch", "Caesar's Commentaries", "Epictetus", "Marshal
Saxe's Military Reveries--"

Here he was stopped by the grasp of Toussaint's hand upon his arm.
Toussaint told the General that he came alone, without chief and without
followers: the few men who had left Breda with him having ranged
themselves with the force of Jean Francais.  He came alone to offer the
strength of his arm, on behalf of his king, to the allies of royalist
France.

The Spanish soldiers, who glittered all around in their arms and bright
uniform, looked upon the somewhat gaunt negro in his plantation dress,
dusty with travel, and his woollen cap in hand, and thought, probably,
that the king of France would not be much aided by such an ally.  It is
probable; for a smile went round, in which Jean joined.  It is probable
that the Marquis d'Hermona thought differently, for he said--

"The strength of your arm!  Good!  And the strength of your head, too, I
hope.  We get more arms than heads from your side of the frontier.  Is
it true that you have studied the art of war?"

"I have studied it in books."

"Very well.  We want officers for our black troops--all we can raise in
the present crisis.  You will have the rank of colonel in a regiment to
be immediately organised.  Are you content?"

Toussaint signified his assent, and orders were given for a tent to be
prepared for his present repose.  He looked around, as if for some one
whom he did not see.  On being asked, he said that if there was at the
post a priest who spoke French, he could wish to converse with him.

"Laxabon understands French, I think," said the marquis to a gentleman
of his staff.  The aide assented.

"Your excellent desire shall be gratified," said the General.  "I doubt
not Father Laxabon will presently visit you in your tent."

Father Laxabon had heard rumours of the horrors perpetrated in the
French colony within the last two nights.  On being told that his
attendance was equally desired by a fugitive negro, he recoiled for a
moment from what he might have to hear.

When he entered the tent, he found Toussaint alone, on the ground, his
bosom bursting with deep and thick-coming sobs, "How is this, my son?"
said the priest.  "Is this grief, or is it penitence?"

"I am free," said Toussaint, "and I am an oppression to myself.  I did
not seek freedom.  I was at ease, and did not desire it, seeing how men
abuse their freedom."

"You must not, then, abuse your freedom, my son," said the priest,
wholly relieved.

"How shall I appear before God--I who have ever been guided, and who
know not whether I can guide myself--my master gone--my employment
gone--and I, by his will, a free man, but unprepared, unfit?--Receive my
confession, father, and guide me from this time."

"Willingly, my son.  He who has appointed a new lot to you will enable
me to guide you in it."

The tent was closed; and Toussaint kneeled to relieve his full heart
from its new sense of freedom, by subjecting himself to a task-master of
the soul.



CHAPTER FIVE.

GRIEFS OF THE LOYAL.

Margot doubted much, at the end of the first week, and at the end of
every following week, whether she liked freedom.  Margot had had few
cares during the many years that she had lived under the mild rule of
Monsieur Bayou--her husband faithful and kind, and her children provided
for without present anxiety on her part.  Thoughts of the future would,
it is true, occasionally trouble her, as she knew they weighed heavily
on her husband's mind.  When she saw Genifrede growing up, handsome in
her parents' eyes, and so timid and reserved that her father sometimes
said he wondered whether any one would ever know her mind better than
her own family did--when Margot looked upon Genifrede, and considered
that her lot in life depended on the will of Monsieur Bayou, she
shuddered to think what it might be.  When Monsieur Bayou told Genifrede
that she was well coiffee, or that he wished she would show the other
girls among the house-negroes how to make their Sunday gowns sit like
hers, Genifrede invariably appeared not to hear, and often walked away
in the midst of the speech; and then her mother could not but wonder how
she would conduct herself, whenever the day should come that must come,
when (as there was no one on the Breda estate whom Genifrede liked, or
would associate with) Monsieur Bayou should bring some one to their
cottage, and desire Genifrede to marry him.  When Margot looked upon her
sons, and upon Aimee, now so inseparable from Isaac, and considered that
their remaining together depended not only on Monsieur Bayou's will, but
on his life, she trembled lest the day should be at hand when Placide
might be carried away northward, and Isaac eastward, and poor Aimee left
desolate.  Such had been the mother's passing cares in the situation in
which nothing had been wanting to her immediate comfort.  Now, amidst
the perplexities of her new settlement, she was apt to forget that she
had formerly had any cares.

Where to house the party had been the first difficulty.  But for old
Dessalines, who, being no soldier, had chosen to hide himself in the
same retreat with them, they would hardly have had good shelter before
the rains.  Paul had received them kindly; but Paul's kindness was of a
somewhat indolent sort; and it was doubtful whether he would have
proceeded beyond looking round his hut, and lamenting that it was no
bigger, if his spirited son Moyse, a fine lad of sixteen, had not been
there to do something more effectual, in finding the place and the
materials for the old tiler to begin his work.  It was Moyse who
convinced the whole party from the plain that a hut of bamboo and
palm-leaves would fall in an hour before one of the hail-storms of this
rocky coast; and that it would not do to build on the sands, lest some
high tide should wash them all away in the night.  It was Moyse who led
his cousins to the part of the beach where portions of wrecks were most
likely to be found, and who lent the strongest hand to remove such beams
and planks as Dessalines wanted for his work.  A house large enough to
hold the family was soon covered in.  It looked well, perched on a
platform of rock, and seeming to nestle in a recess of the huge
precipices which rose behind it.  It looked well, as Dessalines could
obtain neither of his favourite paints to smear it with.  It stood,
neither red nor blue, but nearly the colour of the rocks, against which
it leaned, and thatched with palm-leaves, which projected so far as to
throw off the rains, even to a depth below.

Paul provided fish--as much as his relations chose to have; but the
young people chose to have many other things, under the guidance of
Moyse; and here lay their mother's daily care.  She believed that both
boys and girls ran into a thousand dangers, and no one would help her to
restrain them.  Paul had always let Moyse have his own way; and
Dessalines, when he had brought in drift-wood for her fires, which he
daily chose to do, lay down in the sun when the sun shone, and before
the fire when the clouds gathered, and slept away the hours.  Paul
wanted help in his fishing; and it was commonly Isaac who went with him;
for Isaac was more fond of boating than rambling.  Where Isaac was,
there was Aimee.  She gave no contemptible help in drawing in the nets;
and when the fish was landed, she and Isaac sat for hours among the
mangroves which bordered the neighbouring cove, under pretence of
cleaning the fish, or of mending the nets, or of watching the cranes
which stalked about the sands.  Sometimes, in order to be yet more
secure from disturbance, the brother and sister would put off again,
when they had landed Paul with his prize, and get upon the coral reef,
half a mile off--in calm weather collecting the shell-fish which were
strewed there in multitudes, and watching the while the freaks and
sports of the dolphins in the clear depths around; and in windy weather
sitting in the midst of the spray, which was dashed over them from the
heavy seas outside.  Many times in a morning or evening did Margot look
out from her doorway, and see their dusky forms upon the reef, now
sitting motionless in talk, now stooping for mussels and crabs, and
never till the last moment in the boat, on their way home.  Sometimes
Denis was with them--sometimes with her--but oftenest with the party led
by Moyse.

Moyse had first enticed Genifrede up the rocks behind their dwelling, to
get grass for hammocks, and to make matting for the floors.  Almost from
the first day, it appeared as if Genifrede's fears all melted away in
the presence of Moyse; and her mother became sure of this when, after
grass enough had been procured, Genifrede continued to accompany Placide
and Moyse in their almost daily expeditions for sporting and pleasure.
They brought guanas, tender young monkeys, and cocoa-nuts from the wood,
wild kids from the rock, delicate ducks from the mountain-ponds, and
sometimes a hog or a calf from the droves and herds which flourished in
the rich savannahs on the southern side, on which they looked down from
their ridge.  In the joy of seeing her children home again, gladsome as
they were, and feeling that they brought plenty and luxury into her
cottage, Margot kept her cares to herself, from day-to-day, and did not
interfere with their proceedings.  She sometimes thought she was
foolish, and always was glad to see them enjoying their freedom; but
still, she felt doubtful whether she herself had not been happier at
Breda.  The only time when her heart was completely at ease and exulting
was when Toussaint came to see his family, to open his heart to his
wife, and to smile away her troubles.  Her heart exulted when she saw
him cross the ridge, with a mounted private behind him, urge his horse
down the ascent, gallop along the sands to the foot of the rocks, throw
the bridle to his attendant, and mount to the platform, looking up as he
approached, to see whether she was on the watch.  She was always on the
watch.  She liked to admire his uniform, and to hear his sword clatter
as he walked.  She liked to see him looking more important, more
dignified, than Bayou or Papalier had ever appeared in her eyes.  Then,
her heart was always full of thoughts about their children, which he was
as anxious to hear as she to tell; and he was the only one from whom she
could learn anything of what was going on in the world, or of what
prospects lay before themselves.  He brought news from France, from Cap
and the plain, and, after a while, from America--that Monsieur Bayou was
settled at Baltimore, where he intended to remain till, as he said, the
pacification of the colony should enable him to return to Breda.  There
was no fear, as Toussaint always found, but that Margot would be looking
out for him.

The tidings he brought were never very joyous, and often sad enough.  He
said little of his personal cares; but Margot gathered that he found it
difficult to keep on good terms with Jean.  Once he had resigned his
rank of colonel, and had assumed an office of which Jean could not be
jealous--that of physician to the forces--an office for which he was
qualified by an early and extensive acquaintance with the common
diseases of the country, and the natural remedies provided by its soil.
When the Marquis d'Hermona had insisted upon his resuming his command,
as the best officer the negro forces could boast, Jean had purposed to
arrest him on some frivolous charge, and the foolish act had only been
prevented by a frank and strong remonstrance from his old friend.  All
this time, Toussaint's military successes had been great; and his name
now struck such awe into the lawless forces of the insurgent blacks,
that it was unnecessary for him to shed their blood.  He held the post
of Marmalade, and from thence was present with such unheard-of rapidity
of march, wherever violence was expected, that the spirit of outrage
throughout the colony was, at length, kept in check.  This peaceful mode
of standing by the rights of the king was more acceptable to the gentle
Toussaint than the warfare by which he had gained his power over his own
race; but he knew well that things could not go on as they were--that
order of some kind must be established--order which could be reached
only through a fierce final struggle; and of what nature this order was
to be, depended wholly upon the turn which affairs took in Europe.

He rarely brought good news from abroad.  His countenance always grew
sad when Margot asked what ships had arrived from France since his last
visit.  First he had to tell her that the people of Paris had met in the
Champ de Mars, and demanded the dethronement of the king; then, that
Danton had audaciously informed the representatives of France that their
refusal to declare the throne vacant would be the signal for a general
insurrection.  After this, no national calamity could surprise the loyal
colonists, Toussaint said; for the fate of Louis as a king, if not as a
man, was decided.  Accordingly, there followed humiliations, deposition,
imprisonment, during which little could be known of the mind, and even
of the condition of the king: and those who would have served him
remained in anxious suspense.  It happened, one warm day in the spring,
when every trace of the winter hail-storms had passed away, that the
whole party were amusing themselves in trying to collect enough of the
ripening sea-side grape for a feast.  The bright round leaves were broad
and abundant; but the clusters of the fruit were yet only of a pale
yellow, and a berry here and there was all that was fit for gathering.
The grape-gathering was little more than a pretence for basking in the
sun, or for lounging in the shade of the abundant verdure, which seemed
to have been sown by the hurricane, and watered by the wintry surf, so
luxuriantly did it spring from the sands and the salt waves.  The
stately manchineel overhung the tide; the mangroves sprang out of the
waters; the sea-side grape overspread the sands with a thick green
carpet, and kept them cool, so that as the human foot sought the spot,
the glittering lizards forsook it, and darted away to seek the hot face
of the rock.  For full half a mile this patch of verdure spread; and
over this space were dispersed Margot and her household, when Toussaint
crossed the ridge, on one of his frequent visits.  As he descended, he
heard laughter and singing; and among the singing voices, the cracked
pipe of old Dessalines.  Toussaint grieved to interrupt this mirth, and
to think that he must leave dull and sad those whom he found so gay.
But he came with bad news, and on a mournful errand, and there was no
help for it.  As he pricked on his horse towards the party, the young
people set up a shout and began to run towards him, but stopped short on
seeing how unusually large a train he brought.  Five or six mounted
soldiers, instead of one, followed him this time, and they led several
horses.

"Oh, you are come to take us home!" cried Margot, joyfully, as she met
him.

He shook his head as he replied--"_No_, Margot, not yet.  But the time
may come."

"I wish you could tell us when it would come," said Dessalines.  "It is
all very well gathering these things, and calling them grapes, for want
of better; but give me the grapes that yield one wine.  I wonder who has
been gathering the grapes from my trellis all this time, while, the
whole rainy season through, not a drop did I taste?  I wish you had left
your revolutions and nonsense till after my time, that I might have sat
under my own vine and my own fig-tree, as the priest says, till the end
of my days."

"Indeed I wish so too, Dessalines.  But you shall have some wine."

"Ay, send us some.  Jacques will tell you what I like.  Don't forget,
Toussaint Breda.  They talk of palm wine in the season; but I do not
believe we shall get any worth drinking from the palms hereabouts."

"What is the matter with our palms?" cried Moyse, firing up for the
honour of the northern coast.  "I will get you a cabbage for dinner
every day for a month to come," he added, moderating his tone under his
uncle's eye--"every day, till you say that our palms, too, are as good
as any you have in the plain; and as for palm wine, when the season
comes--"

"No, let me--let me cut the cabbage!" cried Denis.  "I can climb as
quick as a monkey now--a hundred feet in two minutes.  Let me climb the
palmetto, Moyse."

"First take back my horse to those soldiers, my boy," said his father,
setting Denis upon his horse, "and then let us all sit down here in the
shade."

"All those horses," said Margot, anxiously: "what is to be done with
them to-day?  There are so many!"

"They will return presently," replied her husband.  "I am not going to
stay with you to-day.  And, Margot, I shall take the lads with me, if
they are disposed to go."

"The lads! my boys!"

"Yes," said Toussaint, throwing himself down in the shade.  "Our country
and its people are orphaned; and the youngest of us must now make
himself a soldier, that he may be ready for any turn of affairs which
Providences may appoint.  Do you hear, my boys?"

"Yes, father," answered Placide in an earnest tone.

"They have then murdered the king?" asked Margot; "or did he die of his
imprisonment?"

"They brought him to trial, and executed him.  The apes plucked down the
evening star, and quenched it.  We have no king.  We and our country are
orphaned."

After a pause, Paul said--

"It is enough to make one leave one's fishing, and take up a gun."

"I rejoice to hear you say so, brother," said Toussaint.

"Then, father, you will let me go," cried Moyse.  "You will give me your
gun, and let me go to the camp."

"Yes, Moyse: rather you than I.  You are a stout lad now, and I know
nothing of camps.  You shall take the gun, and I will stay and fish."

"Leave your father his gun, if he chooses to remain, Moyse.  We will
find arms for you.  Placide!  Isaac!" he continued, looking from one to
the other of his sons.

"And Denis," cried the boy, placing himself directly in his father's
eye, as he returned breathless from the discharge of his errand.

"Yes, my boy, by-and-bye, when you are as strong as Placide.  You shall
come to the camp when we want you."

"I will go to-day, father," said Placide.

"What to do?" said Isaac.  "I do not understand."

Other eyes besides Aimee's were fixed on Toussaint's face, in anxiety
for his reply.

"I do not know, my son, what we are to do next.  When the parent of a
nation dies, it may take some time to decide what is the duty of those
who feel themselves bereaved.  All I now am sure of is, that it cannot
but be right for my children to be fitted to serve their country in any
way that they may find to be appointed.  I wish to train you to arms,
and the time has come.  Do not you think so?"

Isaac made no direct reply, and Aimee had strong hopes that he was
prepared with some wise, unanswerable reason for remaining where he was.
Meanwhile, his father proceeded--

"In all that I have done, in all that I now say, I have the sanction of
Father Laxabon."

"Then all is right, we may be sure," said Margot.  "I have no doubt you
would be right, if you had not Father Laxabon to consult; but if he
thinks you right, everything must be done as you wish.  My boys,"
pursued the tearful mother, "you must go with your father: you hear
Father Laxabon thinks so."

"Do you think so?" whispered Aimee to Isaac.

He pressed her arm, which was within his, in token of silence, while his
father went on:

"You heard the proclamation I sent out among our people a few weeks
ago."

"Yes," said Placide; "that in which you tell them that you prefer
serving with Spaniards who own a king, than with French who own none."

"Yes.  I have had to make the same declaration to the two commissaries
who have arrived at Cap under orders from the regicides at Paris.  These
commissaries have to-day invited me to their standard by promises of
favour and consideration."

"What do they promise us?" asked Margot eagerly.

"Nothing that we can accept.  I have written a letter in reply, saying
that I cannot yield myself to the will of any member of the nation,
seeing that, since nations began, obedience has been due only to kings.
We have lost the king of France; but we are beloved by the monarch of
Spain, who faithfully rewards our services, and never intermits his
protection and indulgence.  Thus, I cannot acknowledge the authority of
these commissaries till they shall have enthroned a king.  Such is the
letter which, guided by Father Laxabon, I have written."

"It is a beautiful letter, I am sure," said Margot.  "Is it not, Paul."

"I don't doubt Father Laxabon is right," said Dessalines; "only I do not
see the use of having a king, if people are turned out of house and home
for being loyal--as we all are.  If we had not cared anything about the
king's quarrel, we might have been under our vines at home, as I have
often said before."

"And how would it have been with us here?" said Toussaint, laying his
hand on his breast.

"Put your hand a little lower, and I say it would have been all the
better for us," said the old negro, laughing, "for we should not have
gone without wine all this time."

"What do you think?"  Aimee, as usual, asked Isaac.

"I think it was good for my father to be loyal to the king, as long as
the king lived.  I think it was good for us to be living here free, with
time to consider what we should do next.  And I think it has happened
very well that my father has shown what a soldier he is, which he could
not so well have done if we had stayed at Breda.  As for Dessalines, he
is best where the vines grow thickest, or where the cellars are deepest.
It is a pity he should have taken upon him to be loyal."

"And what do you think of going to the camp with my father?  Look at
Moyse--how delighted he is!"

Moyse certainly did look possessed with joy.  He was rapidly telling all
his warlike intentions to Genifrede, who was looking in his face with a
countenance of fear and grief.

"You think nothing of us," she cried at length, giving way to a passion
of tears.  "We have been so happy here, all together; and now you are
glad to go, and leave us behind!  You will go and fight, without caring
for us--you will be killed in this horrid war, and we shall never see
you again--we shall never know what has become of you."

Moyse's military fire was instantly quenched.  It immediately appeared
to him the greatest of miseries to have to leave his cousins.  He
assured Genifrede he could not really intend to go.  He had only been
fancying what a war with the white masters would be.  He hated the
whites heartily; but he loved this place much more.  Placide and Isaac
might go, but he should stay.  Nothing should part him from those he
loved best.

Toussaint was not unmindful of what was passing.  Genifrede's tones of
distress, and Moyse's protestations, all reached his ear.  He turned,
and gently drew his daughter towards him.

"My child," said he, "we are no longer what we have been--slaves, whose
strength is in the will of their masters.  We are free; and to be free
requires a strong heart, in women as well as in men.  When Monsieur
Bayou was our master, we rose and slept every day alike, and went out to
our work, and came in to our food, without having to think of anything
beyond.  Now we are free, and God has raised us to the difficult duties
which we have always reverenced in the whites.  We men must leave our
homes to live in camps, and, if necessary, to fight; and you, women and
girls, must make it easy for us to do our duty.  You must be willing to
see us go--glad to spare us--and you must pray to God that we may not
return till our duty is done."

"I cannot--I shall not," Genifrede muttered to herself, as she cast down
her eyes under her father's compassionate gaze.  He looked towards
Aimee, who answered, with tearful eyes--

"Yes, father.  They must go; and we will not hinder them; but they will
soon be back, will not they?"

"That depends on how soon we can make good soldiers of them," said he,
cheerfully.  "Come, Moyse, have you changed your mind again?  Or will
you stay and plait hammocks, while my boys are trained to arms?"

"I shall not stay behind, if the others go.  But why should not we all
go together?  I am sure there is room enough in yonder valley for all
the people on this coast."

"Room enough, but my family are better beside your father than among
soldiers and the hunters of the mountains.  Stay with them, or go with
me.  Shoot ducks, and pick up shell-fish here; or go with me, and
prepare to be General Moyse some day."

Moyse looked as if he would have knocked his uncle down at the
supposition that he would stay to pick up shell-fish.  He could not but
laugh, however, at hearing himself greeted as General Moyse by all the
boys; and even Genifrede smiled.

Margot moved, sighing, towards the rocks, to put up for her boys such
comforts as she could muster, and to prepare the meal which they must
have before they went.  Her girls went with her; and Denis shouted after
them, that he was to get the cabbage from the palmetto, adding, that if
they gave him a good knife, he would take it off as neatly as the Paris
people took off the king.  His father grasped his arm, and said--

"Never name the king, my boy, till you feel grieved that you have lost
him.  You do not know what you say.  Remember--never mention the king
unless we ask you."

Denis was glad to run after his cabbage.  His father remembered to
praise it at dinner.  No one else praised or liked anything.  Margot and
Aimee were tearful; Genifrede was gloomy.  The lads could think of
nothing but the new life before them, which yet they did not like to
question their father about, till they should have left the tears
behind.  No sooner were they past the first turn up the ridge, than they
poured out their inquiries as to life in the camp, and the prospects of
the war.  Their eager gestures were watched by those they left behind;
and there was a feeling of mortification in each woman's heart, on
seeing this evidence that home was already forgotten for busier scenes.
They persuaded themselves, and believed of each other, that their grief
was for the fearful death of the king; and they spoke as if this had
been really the case.

"We have no one to look up to, now," said Margot, sobbing; "no one to
protect us.  Who would have thought, when I married, how desolate we
should be one day on the sea-shore--with our master at Baltimore, and
the king dead, and no king likely to come after him!  What will become
of us?"

"But Margot," interposed Dessalines, "how should we be better off at
this moment, if the king were alive and flourishing at Paris?"

"How?" repeated Margot, indignantly.  "Why, he would have been our
protector, to be sure.  He would have done some fine thing for my
husband, considering what my husband has done for him.  If our beloved
king (on his throne) knew of my husband's victory at Plaisance, and of
his expedition to Saint Marc, and of his keeping quiet all these
plantations near Marmalade, and of the thousands that he had brought
over from the rebels, do you think a good master like the king would
have left us to pine here among the rocks, while Jean Francais is
boasting all day long, as if he had done everything with his own hand?
No, our good king would never have let Jean Francais' wife dress herself
in the best jewels the white ladies left behind, while the wife and
daughters of his very best officer are living here in a hut, on a rock,
with no other clothes to wear than they brought away from Breda.  No,
no; as my husband says, in losing the king we are orphans."

"I can get you as good clothes as ever Jean's wife wore, Margot," said
Paul, whose soft heart was touched by her grief.  "I can run my boat
along to a place I know of, where there are silks and trinkets to be
had, as well as brandy.  I will bring you and the girls some pretty
dresses, Margot."

"No, Paul, not here.  We cannot wear them here.  And we shall have no
pleasure in anything, now we have lost the only one who could take care
of us.  And who knows whether we shall ever see our boys again?"

"Curse the war!" muttered Paul, wiping his brows.

"Mother," said Aimee in a low voice, "have we not God to protect us
still?  One master may desert us, and another may die; but there is
still God above all.  Will not he protect us?"

"Yes, my dear.  God takes care of the world; but then He takes care of
our enemies as well as of us."

"Does he?" exclaimed Denis, in a tone of surprise.

"Yes; ask your father if Father Laxabon does not say so.  The name of
God is for ever in the mouths of the whites at Cap; but they reviled the
king; and, true enough, the king was altogether on our side,--we had all
his protection."

"All that is a good deal changed now, I hear," said Paul.  "The whites
at Cap are following the example of the rebels at Paris, and do not rely
upon God, as on their side, as they used to do."

"Will God leave off taking care of them, then?" asked Denis, "and take
care only of us?"

"No," said Aimee.  "God is willing, Isaac says, to take care of all men,
whether they serve him or not."

Denis shook his head, as if he did not quite approve this.

"Our priest told Isaac," continued Aimee, "that God sends his rain on
the just and on the unjust.  And do not you know that he does?  When the
rains come next month, will they not fall on all the plantations of the
plain, as well as in the valley where the camp is?  Our waterfalls will
be all the fresher and brighter for the rains, and so will the springs
in Cap."

"But if he is everybody's master, and takes care of everybody," said
Denis, "what is all this fighting about?  We are not fighting for Him,
are we?"

"Your father is," said Margot; "for God is always on the side of kings.
Father Laxabon says so."

The boy looked puzzled, till Aimee said--

"I think there would be none of this fighting if everybody tried to
please God and serve Him, as is due to a master--as father did for the
king.  God does not wish that men should fight.  So our priest at Breda
told Isaac."

"Unless wicked rebels force them to it, as your father is forced," said
Margot.

"I suppose so," said Aimee, "by Isaac's choosing to go."



CHAPTER SIX.

THE HOUR.

The lads found some of the details of military training less heroic and
less agreeable than they had imagined--scarcely to be compared, indeed,
under either aspect, to the chase of the wild goats, and search for
young turtle, to which they had been of late accustomed.  They had their
pleasures, however, amidst the heats, toils, and laborious offices of
the camp.  They felt themselves men, living among men: they were young
enough to throw off, and almost to forget, the habits of thought which
belong to slavery; and they became conscious of a spirit growing up
within them, by which they could look before and after, perceive that
the future of their lives was in their own hands, and therefore
understand the importance of the present time.  Their father looked upon
them with mixed feelings of tender pride in them, and regret for his own
lost youth.  The strong and busy years on which they were entering had
been all spent by him in acquiring one habit of mind, to which his
temperament and his training alike conduced--a habit of endurance.  It
was at this time that he had acquired the power of reading enough to
seek for books; and the books that he had got hold of were Epictetus,
and some fragments of Fenelon.  With all the force of youth, he had been
by turns the stoic and the quietist; and, while busied in submitting
himself to the pressure of the present, he had turned from the past, and
scarcely dreamed of the future.  If his imagination glanced back to the
court of his royal grandfather, held under the palm shades, or pursuing
the lion-hunt amidst the jungles of Africa, he had hastily withdrawn his
mind's eye from scenes which might create impatience of his lot; and if
he ever wondered whether a long succession of ignorant and sensual
blacks were to be driven into the field by the whip every day in Saint
Domingo, for evermore, he had cut short the speculation as inconsistent
with his stoical habit of endurance, and his Christian principle of
trust.  It was not till his youth was past that he had learned anything
of the revolutions of the world--too late to bring them into his
speculations and his hopes.  He had read, from year to year, of the
conquests of Alexander and of Caesar; he had studied the wars of France,
and drawn the plans of campaigns in the sand before his door till he
knew them by heart; but it had not occurred to him, that while empires
were overthrown in Asia, and Europe was traversed by powers which gave
and took its territories, as he saw the negroes barter their cocoa-nuts
and plantains on Saturday nights--while such things had happened in
another hemisphere, it had not occurred to him that change would ever
happen in Saint Domingo.  He had heard of earthquakes taking place at
intervals of hundreds of years, and he knew that the times of the
hurricane were not calculable; but, patient and still as was his own
existence, he had never thought whether there might not be a convulsion
of human affections, a whirlwind of human passion, preparing under the
grim order of society in the colony.  If a master died, his heir
succeeded him; if the "force" of any plantation was by any conjuncture
of circumstances dispersed or removed, another negro company was on the
shore, ready to re-people the slave-quarter.  The mutabilities of human
life had seemed to him to be appointed to whites--to be their privilege
and their discipline; while he doubted not that the eternal command to
blacks was to bear and forbear.  When he now looked upon his boys, and
remembered that for them this order was broken up, and in time for them
to grasp a future, and prepare for it--that theirs was the lot of
whites, in being involved in social changes, he regarded them with a far
deeper solicitude and tenderness than in the darkest midnight hours of
their childish illnesses, or during the sweetest prattle of their
Sabbath afternoons, and with a far stronger hopefulness than can ever
enter the heart or home of a slave.  They had not his habitual patience;
and he saw that they were little likely to attain it; but they daily
manifested qualities and powers--enterprise, forecast, and aspiration of
various kinds, adorning their youth with a promise which made their
father sigh at the retrospect of his own.  He was amused, at the same
time, to see in them symptoms of a boyish vanity, to which he had either
not been prone, or which he had early extinguished.  He detected in each
the secret eagerness with which they looked forward to displaying their
military accomplishments to those with whom they were always exchanging
thoughts over the ridge.  He foresaw that when they should have improved
a little in certain exercises, he should be receiving hints about a
visit to the shore, and that there would then be such a display upon the
sands as should excite prodigious admiration, and make Denis break his
heart that he must not go to the camp.

Meantime, he amused them in the evenings, with as many of his officers
as chose to look on, by giving them the history of the wars of Asia and
Europe, as he had learned it from books, and thoroughly mastered it by
reflection.  Night after night was the map of Greece traced with his
sword's point on the sand behind his tent, while he related the
succession of the conflicts with Persia, with a spirit derived from old
Herodotus himself.  Night after night did the interest of his hearers
arouse more and more spirit in himself, till he became aware that his
sympathies with the Greeks in their struggles for liberty had hitherto
been like those of the poet born blind, who delights in describing
natural scenery--thus unconsciously enjoying the stir within him of
powers whose appropriate exercise is forbidden.  Amidst this survey of
the regions of history, he felt, with humble wonder, that while his boys
were like bright-eyed children sporting fearlessly in the fields, he was
like one lately couched, by whom the order of things was gradually
becoming recognised, but who was oppressed by the unwonted light, and
inwardly ashamed of the hesitation and uncertainty of his tread.  While
sons, nephew, and a throng of his officers, were listening to him as to
an oracle, and following the tracings of his sword, as he showed how
this advance and that retreat had been made above two thousand years
ago, he was full of consciousness that the spirit of the history of
freedom was received more truly by the youngest of his audience than by
himself--that he was learning from their natural ardour something of
higher value than all that he had to impart.

As he was thus engaged, late one spring evening--late, because the rains
would soon come on, and suspend all out-door meetings--he was stopped in
the midst of explaining a diagram by an authoritative tap on the
shoulder.  Roused by an appeal to his attention now so unusual, he
turned quickly, and saw a black, who beckoned him away.

"Why cannot you speak!--Or do you take me for some one else?  Speak your
business."

"I cannot," said the man, in a voice which, though too low to be heard
by anyone else, Toussaint knew to be Papalier's.  "I cannot speak here--
I must not make myself known.  Come this way."

Great was the surprise of the group at seeing Toussaint instantly follow
this black, who appeared in the dusk to be meanly clothed.  They entered
the tent, and let down the curtain at the entrance.  Some saw that a
woman stood within the folds of the tent.

"Close the tent," said Papalier, in the same tone in which he had been
wont to order his plate to be changed at home.  "And _now_, give me some
water to wash off this horrid daubing.  Some water--quick!  Pah!  I have
felt as if I were really a negro all this day."

Toussaint said nothing; nor did he summon any one.  He saw it was a case
of danger, led the way into the inner part of the tent, poured out
water, pointed to it, and returned to the table, where he sat down, to
await further explanation.

Papalier at length re-appeared, looking like himself, even as to his
clothes, which Therese must have brought in the bundle which she
carried.  She now stood leaning against one of the tent-poles, looking
grievously altered--worn and wearied.

"Will you not sit down, Therese?" said Toussaint, pointing to a chair
near his own, Papalier having seated himself on the other side of the
table.

Therese threw herself on a couch at some distance, and hid her face.

"I must owe my safety to you again, Toussaint," said Papalier.  "I
understand General Hermona is here at present."

"He is."

"You have influence with him, and you must use it for me."

"I am sorry you need it.  I hoped you would have taken advantage of the
reception he gave you to learn the best time and manner of going to
Europe.  I hoped you had been at Paris long ago."

"I ought to have been there.  If I had properly valued my life, I should
have been there.  But it seemed so inconceivable that things should have
reached a worse pass than when I crossed the frontier!  It seemed so
incredible that I should not be able to preserve any wreck of my
property for my children, that I have lingered on, staying month after
month, till now I cannot get away.  I have had a dreadful life of it.  I
had better have been anywhere else.  Why, even Therese," he continued,
pointing over his shoulder towards the couch, "Therese, who would not be
left behind at Fort Egalite, the night we came from Breda--even Therese
has not been using me as she should do.  I believe she hates me."

"You are in trouble, and therefore I will not speak with you to-night
about Therese," said Toussaint.  "You are in danger, from the
determination of the Spaniards to deliver up the enemies of the late
king to--"

"Rather say to deliver up the masters to their revolted slaves.  They
make politics the pretence; but they would not be sorry to see us all
cut to pieces, like poor Odeluc and Clement, and fifty more."

"However that may be, your immediate danger is from the Spaniards--is
it?"

"Yes, I discovered that I was to be sent over the line to-morrow; so I
was obliged to get here to-day in any way I could; and there was no
other way than--pah! it was horrid!"

"No other way than by looking like a negro," said Toussaint, calmly.
"Well, now you are here, what do you mean to do next?"

"I mean, by your influence with General Hermona, to obtain protection to
a port, that I may proceed to Europe.  I do not care whether I go from
Saint Domingo, or by Saint Iago, so as to sail from Port Plate.  I could
find a vessel from either port.  You would have no difficulty in
persuading General Hermona to this?"

"I hope not, as he voluntarily gave you permission to enter his
territory.  I will ask for his safe-conduct in the morning.  To-night
you are safe, if you remain here.  I request that you will take
possession of the inner apartment, and rely upon my protection."

"Thankyou.  I knew my best way was to come here," said Papalier, rising.
"Therese will bring me some refreshment; and then I shall be glad of
rest, for we travelled half last night."

"For how many shall the safe-conduct be?" asked Toussaint, who had also
risen.  "For yourself alone, or more?"

"No one knows better than you," said Papalier, hastily, "that I have
only one servant left," pointing again to the couch.  "And," lowering
his voice, so that Therese could not hear, "she, poor thing, is
dreadfully altered, you see--has never got over the loss of her child,
that night."  Then, raising his voice again, he pursued: "My daughters
at Paris will be glad to see Therese, I know; and she will like Paris,
as everybody does.  All my other people are irrecoverable, I fear; but
Therese goes with me."

"No," said Therese, from the conch, "I will go nowhere with you."

"Hey-day! what is that?" said Papalier, turning in the direction of the
voice.  "Yes, you will go, my dear.  You are tired to-night, as you well
may be.  You feel as I do--as if you could not go anywhere, to-morrow or
the next day.  But we shall be rested and ready enough, when the time
comes."

"I am ready at this moment to go anywhere else--anywhere away from you,"
replied Therese.

"What do you mean, Therese?" asked her master, sharply.

"I mean what you said just now--that I hate you."

"Oh! silence!" exclaimed Toussaint.  He then added in a mild tone to
Therese, "This is my house, in which God is worshipped and Christ
adored, and where therefore no words of hatred may be spoken."  He then
addressed himself to Papalier, saying, "You have then fully resolved
that it is less dangerous to commit yourself to the Spaniards than to
attempt to reach Cap?"

"To reach Cap!  What! after the decree?  Upon my soul, Toussaint, I
never doubted you yet; but if--"

He looked Toussaint full in the face.

"I betray no one," said Toussaint.  "What decree do you speak of?"

"That of the Convention of the 4th of February last."

"I have not heard of it."

"Then it is as I hoped--that decree is not considered here as of any
importance.  I trusted it would be so.  It is merely a decree of the
Convention, confirming and proclaiming the liberty of the negroes, and
declaring the colony henceforth an integrant part of France.  It is a
piece of folly and nonsense, as you will see at once; for it can never
be enforced.  No one of any sense will regard it; but just at present it
has the effect, you see, of making it out of the question for me to
cross the frontier."

"True," said Toussaint, in a voice which made Papalier look in his face,
which was working with some strong emotion.  He turned away from the
light, and desired Therese to follow him.  He would commit her to the
charge of one of the suttlers' wives for the night.

Having put on the table such fruit, bread, and wine as remained from his
own meal (Papalier forbidding further preparation, for fear of exciting
observation without), Toussaint went out with Therese, committed her to
safe hands, and then entered the tent next his own, inhabited by his
sons, and gave them his accustomed blessing.  On his return, he found
that Papalier had retired.

Toussaint was glad to be alone.  Never had he more needed solitude; for
rarely, if ever, in the course of his life, had his calm soul been so
disturbed.  During the last words spoken by Papalier, a conviction had
flashed across him, more vivid and more tremendous than any lightning
which the skies of December had sent forth to startle the bodily eye;
and amidst the storm which those words had roused within him, that
conviction continued to glare forth at intervals, refusing to be
quenched.  It was this--that if it were indeed true that the
revolutionary government of France had decreed to the negroes the
freedom and rights of citizenship, to tight against the revolutionary
government would be henceforth to fight against the freedom and rights
of his race.  The consequences of such a conviction were overpowering to
his imagination.  As one inference after another presented itself before
him--as a long array of humiliations and perplexities showed themselves
in the future--he felt as if his heart were bursting.  For hour after
hour of that night he paced the floor of his tent; and if he rested his
limbs, so unused to tremble with fear or toil, it was while covering his
face with his hands, as if even the light of the lamp disturbed the
intensity of his meditation.  A few hours may, at certain crises of the
human mind and lot, do the work of years; and this night carried on the
education of the noble soul, long repressed by slavery, to a point of
insight which multitudes do not reach in a lifetime.  No doubt, the
preparation had been making through years of forbearance and meditation,
and through the latter mouths of enterprise and activity; but yet, the
change of views and purposes was so great as to make him feel, between
night and morning, as if he were another man.

The lamp burned out, and there was no light but from the brilliant
flies, a few of which had found their way into the tent.  Toussaint made
his repeater strike: it was three o'clock.  As his mind grew calm under
the settlement of his purposes, he became aware of the thirst which his
agitation had excited.  By the light of the flitting tapers, he poured
out water, refreshed himself with a deep draught, and then addressed
himself to his duty.  He could rarely endure delay in acting on his
convictions.  The present was a case in which delay was treachery; and
he would not lose an hour.  He would call up Father Laxabon, and open
his mind to him, that he might be ready for action when the camp should
awake.

As he drew aside the curtain of the tent, the air felt fresh to his
heated brow, and, with the calm starlight, seemed to breathe strength
and quietness into his soul.  He stood for a moment listening to the
dash and gurgle of the river, as it ran past the camp--the voice of
waters, so loud to the listening ear, but so little heeded amidst the
hum of the busy hours of day.  It now rose above the chirpings and
buzzings of reptiles and insects, and carried music to the ear and
spirit of him who had so often listened at Breda to the fall of water in
the night hours, with a mind unburdened and unperplexed with duties and
with cares.  The sentinel stopped before the tent with a start which
made his arms ring at seeing the entrance open, and some one standing
there.

"Watch that no one enters?" said Toussaint to him.  "Send for me to
Father Laxabon's, if I am wanted."

As he entered the tent of the priest--a tent so small as to contain only
one apartment--all seemed dark.  Laxabon slept so soundly as not to
awake till Toussaint had found the tinder-box, and was striking a light.

"In the name of Christ, who is there?" cried Laxabon.

"I, Toussaint Breda; entreating your pardon, father."

"Why are you here, my son?  There is some misfortune, by your face.  You
look wearied and anxious.  What is it?"

"No misfortune, father, and no crime.  But my mind is anxious, and I
have ventured to break your rest.  You will pardon me?"

"You do right, my son.  We are ready for service, in season and out of
season."

While saying this, the priest had risen, and thrown on his morning-gown.
He now seated himself at the table, saying--

"Let us hear.  What is this affair of haste?"

"The cause of my haste is this--that I may probably not again have
conversation with you, father; and I desire to confess, and be absolved
by you once more."

"Good.  Some dangerous expedition--is it not so?"

"No.  The affair is personal altogether.  Have you heard of any decree
of the French Convention by which the negroes--the slaves--of the colony
of Saint Domingo are freely accepted as fellow-citizens, and the colony
declared an integrant part of France?"

"Surely I have.  The General was speaking of it last night; and I
brought away a copy of the proclamation consequent upon it.  Let me
see," said he, rising, and taking up the lamp, "where did I put that
proclamation?"

"With your sacred books, perhaps, father; for it is a gospel to me and
my race."

"Do you think it of so much importance?" asked Laxabon, returning to the
table with the newspaper containing the proclamation, officially given.
"The General does not seem to think much of it, nor does Jean Francais."

"To a commander of our allies the affair may appear a trifle, father;
and such white planters as cannot refuse to hear the tidings may scoff
at them; but Jean Francais, a negro and a slave--is it possible that he
makes light of this?"

"He does; but he has read it, and you have not.  Read it, my son, and
without prejudice."

Toussaint read it again and again.

"Well!" said the priest, as Toussaint put down the paper, no longer
attempting to hide with it the streaming tears which covered his face.

"Father," said he, commanding his voice completely, "is there not hope,
that if men, weakened and blinded by degradation, mistake their duty
when the time for duty comes, they will be forgiven?"

"In what case, my son?  Explain yourself."

"If I, hitherto a slave, and wanting, therefore, the wisdom of a free
man, find myself engaged on the wrong side--fighting against the
providence of God--is there not hope that I may be forgiven on turning
to the right?"

"How the wrong side, my son?  Are you not fighting for your king, and
for the allies of France?"

"I have been so pledged and so engaged; and I do not say that I was
wrong when I so engaged and so pledged myself.  But if I had been wise
as a free man should be, I should have foreseen of late what has now
happened, and not have been found, when last night's sun went down (and
as to-morrow night's sun shall not find me), holding a command against
the highest interests of my race--now, at length, about to be redeemed."

"You--Toussaint Breda--the loyal!  If Heaven has put any of its grace
within you, it has shown itself in your loyalty; and do you speak of
deserting the forces raised in the name of your king, and acting upon
the decrees of his enemies?  Explain to me, my son, how this can be.  It
seems to me that I can scarcely be yet awake."

"And to me, it seems, father, that never till now have I been awake.
Yet it was in no vain dream that I served my king.  If he is now where
he can read the hearts of his servants, he knows that it was not for my
command, or for any other dignity and reward, that I came hither, and
have fought under the royal flag of France.  It was from reverence and
duty to him, under God.  He is now in heaven; we have no king; and my
loyalty is due elsewhere.  I know not how it might have been if he had
still lived; for it seems to me now that God has established a higher
royalty among men than even that of an anointed sovereign over the
fortunes of many millions of men.  I think now that the rule which the
free man has over his own soul, over time and eternity--subject only to
God's will--is a nobler authority than that of kings; but, however I
might have thought, our king no longer lives; and, by God's mercy, as it
seems to me now, while the hearts of the blacks feel orphaned and
desolate, an object is held forth to us for the adoration of our
loyalty--an object higher than throne and crown, and offered us by the
hand of the King of kings."

"Do you mean freedom, my son?  Remember that it is in the name of
freedom that the French rebels have committed the crimes which--which it
would consume the night to tell of, and which no one knows better, or
abhors more, than yourself."

"It is true; but they struggled for this and that, and the other right
and privilege existing in societies of those who are fully admitted to
be men.  In the struggle, crime has been victorious, and they have
killed their king.  The object of my devotion will now be nothing that
has to be wrenched from an anointed ruler, nothing which can be gained
by violence--nothing but that which, being already granted, requires
only to be cherished, and may best be cherished in peace--the manhood of
my race.  To this must I henceforth be loyal."

"How can men be less slaves than the negroes of Saint Domingo of late?
No real change has taken place; and yet you, who wept that freedom as
rebellion, are now proposing to add your force to it."

"And was it not rebellion?  Some rose for the plunder of their masters--
some from ambition--some from revenge--many to escape from a condition
they had not patience to endure.  All this was corrupt; and the
corruption, though bred out of slavery, as the fever from the marshes,
grieved my soul as if I had not known the cause.  But now, knowing the
cause, and others (knowing it also) having decreed that slavery is at an
end, and given the sanction of law and national sympathy to our
freedom--is not the case changed?  Is it now a folly or a sin to desire
to realise and purify and elevate this freedom, that those who were
first slaves and then savages may at length become men--not in decrees
and proclamations only, but in their own souls?  You do not answer,
father.  Is it not so?"

"Open yourself further, my son.  Declare what you propose.  I fear you
are perplexing yourself."

"If I am deceived, father, I look for light from heaven through you."

"I fear--I fear, my son!  I do not find in you to-night the tone of
humility and reliance upon religion in which you found comfort the first
time you opened the conflicts of your heart to me.  You remember that
night, my son?"

"The first night of my freedom?  Never shall I forget its agonies."

"I rejoice to hear it.  Those agonies were safer, more acceptable to
God, than the comforts of self-will."

"My father, if my will ensnares me, lay open the snare--I say not for
the sake of my soul only--but for far, far more--for the sake of my
children, for the sake of my race, for the sake of the glory of God in
His dealings with men, bring me back if I stray."

"Well.  Explain--explain what you propose."

"I cannot remain in an army opposed to what are now the legal rights of
the blacks."

"You will give up your command?"

"I shall."

"And your boys--what will you do with them?"

"Send them whence they came for the present.  I shall dismiss them by
one road, while the resignation of my rank goes by another."

"And you yourself by a third."

"When I have declared myself to General Hermona."

"Have you thoughts of taking your soldiers with you?"

"No."

"But what is right for you is right for them."

"If they so decide for themselves.  My power over them is great.  They
would follow me with a word.  I shall therefore avoid speaking that
word, as it would be a false first step in a career of freedom, to make
them enter upon it as slaves to my opinion and my will."

"But you will at least address them, that they may understand the course
you pursue.  The festival of this morning will afford an opportunity--
after mass.  Have you thought of this?--I do not say that I am advising
it, or sanctioning any part of your plan, but have you thought of this?"

"I have, and dismissed the thought.  The proclamation will speak for
itself.  I act from no information which is not open to them all.  They
can act, thank God, for themselves; and I will not seduce them into
subservience, or haste, or passion."

"But you will be giving up everything.  What can make you think that the
French at Cap, all in the interest of the planters, will receive you?"

"I do not think it; and I shall not offer myself."

"Then you will sink into nothing.  You will no longer be an officer, nor
even a soldier.  You will be a mere negro, where negroes are wholly
despised.  After all that you have been, you will be nothing."

"I shall be a true man."

"You will sink to less than nothing.  You will be worse than useless
before God and man.  You will be held a traitor."

"I shall; but it will be for the sake of a higher fidelity."

There was a long pause, after which Laxabon said, in a tone half severe,
and half doubting--

"So, here ends your career!  You will dig a piece of ground to grow
maize and plantains for your family; you will read history in your
piazza, and see your daughters dance in the shade, while your name will
never be mentioned but as that of a traitor.  So here ends your career!"

"From no one so often as you, father, have I heard that man's career
never ends."

The priest made no reply.

"How lately was it," pursued Toussaint, "that you encouraged my
children, when they, who fear neither the wild bull nor the tornado,
looked somewhat fearfully up to the eclipsed moon?  Who was it but you
who told them, that though that blessed light seemed blotted out from
the sky, it was not so; but that behind the black shadow, God's hand was
still leading her on, through the heaven, still pouring radiance into
her lamp, not the less bright because it was hidden from men?  A thick
shadow is about to pass upon my name; but is it not possible, father,
that God may still be feeding my soul with light--still guiding me
towards Himself?  Will you not once more tell me, that man's career
never ends?"

"In a certain sense--in a certain sense, that is true, my son.  But our
career here is what God has put into our own hands: and it seems to me
that you are throwing away His gift and His favour.  How will you answer
when He asks you, `What hast thou done with the rank and the power I put
into thy hand?  How hast thou used them?'  What can you then answer, but
`I flung them away, and made myself useless and a reproach.'  You know
what a station you hold in this camp--how you are prized by the General
for the excellence of the military discipline you have introduced; and
by me, and all the wise and religious, for the sobriety of manners and
purity of morals of which you are an example in yourself, and which you
have cherished among your troops, so that your soldiers are the boast of
the whole alliance.  You know this--that you unite the influence of the
priest with the power of the commander; and yet you are going to cast
off both, with all the duties which belong to them, and sink yourself in
infamy--and with yourself, the virtues you have advocated.  How will you
answer this to God?"

"Father, was there not One in whose path lay all the kingdoms of the
world and the glory of them, and who yet chose ignominy--to be despised
by the world, instead of to lead it?  And was God severe with Him?
Forgive me, father; but have you not desired me to follow Him, though
far-off as the eastern moon from the setting sun?"

"That was a case, my son, unique in the world.  The Saviour had a lot of
His own.  Common men have rulers appointed them whom they are to serve;
and, if in rank and honour, so much the greater the favour of God.  You
entered this service with an upright mind and pure intent; and here,
therefore, can you most safely remain, instead of casting yourself down
from the pinnacle of the temple, which, you know, the Son of God refused
to do.  Remember His words, `Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.'  Be
not tempted yourself, by pride of heart, to compare your lot with that
of Christ, which was unique."

"He devoted Himself for the whole race of man: He, and He alone.  But it
seems to me that there may be periods of time when changes are appointed
to take place among men--among nations, and even among races; and that a
common man may then be called to devote himself for that nation, or for
that race.  Father, I feel that the hour may be come for the negro race
to be redeemed; and that I, a common man, may so far devote myself as
not to stand in the way of their redemption.  I feel that I must step
out from among those who have never admitted the negroes' claims to
manhood.  If God should open to me a way to serve the blacks better, I
shall be found ready.  Meantime, not for another day will I stand in the
light of their liberties.  Father," he continued, with an eagerness
which grew as he spoke, "you know something of the souls of slaves.  You
know how they are smothered in the lusts of the body, how they are
debased by the fear of man, how blind they are to the providence of God!
You know how oppression has put out the eyes of their souls, and
withered its sinews.  If now, at length, a Saviour has once more for
them stretched out His healing hand, and bidden them see, and arise and
be strong, shall I resist the work?  And you, father, will you not aid
it?  I would not presume; but if I might say all--"

"Say on, my son."

"Having reproved and raised the souls of slaves, would it not henceforth
be a noble work for you to guide their souls as men?  If you would come
among us as a soldier of Christ, who is bound to no side in earthly
quarrels--if you would come as to those who need you most, the lowest,
the poorest, the most endangered, what a work may lie between this hour
and your last!  What may your last hour be, if, day by day, you have
trained our souls in the glorious liberty of the children of God!  The
beginning must be lowly; but the kind heart of the Christian priest is
lowly: and you would humble yourself first to teach men thus,--`you were
wrong to steal'--`you were wrong to drink'--`you were wrong to take more
wives than one, and to strike your children in passion.'  Thus humbly
must you begin; but among free men, how high may you not rise?  Before
you die, you may have led them to rule their own spirits, and, from the
throne of that sovereignty, to look far into the depths of the heavens,
and over the history of the world; so that they may live in the light of
God's countenance, and praise Him almost like the angels--for, you know,
He has made us, even us, but a little lower than they."

"This would be a noble work," said Laxabon, much moved: "and if God is
really about to free your race, He will appoint a worthy servant for the
office.  My duty, however, lies here.  I have here souls in charge,
without being troubled with doubts as to the intentions of God and of
men.  As I told you, the General does not think so much as you do of
this event; nor even does Jean Francais.  If you act rashly, you will
repent for ever having quitted the path of loyalty and duty.  I warn you
to pause, and see what course events will take.  I admonish you not
hastily to desert the path of loyally and duty."

"If it had pleased God," said Toussaint, humbly, "to release me from the
ignorance of slavery when He gave me freedom, I might now be able to lay
open my heart as I desire to do; I might declare the reasons which
persuade me so strongly as I feel persuaded.  But I am ignorant, and
unskilful in reasoning with one like you, father."

"It is therefor that we are appointed to guide and help you, my son.
You now know my mind, and have received my admonition.  Let us proceed
to confession; for the morning draws on towards the hour for mass."

"Father, I cannot yield to your admonition.  Reprove me as you will, I
cannot.  There is a voice within me stronger than yours."

"I fear so, my son; nor can I doubt what that voice is, nor whence it
comes.  I will pray for you, that you may have strength to struggle with
the tempter."

"Not so, father; rather pray that I may have strength to obey this new
voice of duty, alone as I am, discountenanced as I shall be."

"Impossible, my son.  I dare not so pray for one self-willed and
precipitate; nor, till you bring a humble and obedient mind, can I
receive your confession.  There can be no absolution where there is
reservation.  Consider, my dear son!  I only desire you to pause."

"Delay is treachery," said Toussaint.  "This day the decree and
proclamation will be made known through the forces; and if I remain,
this night's sun sets on my condemnation.  I shall not dare to pray,
clothed in my rank, this night."

"Go now, my son.  You see it is dawning.  You have lost the present
opportunity; and you must now leave me to my duties.  When you can
return hither to yours, you will be welcome."

Toussaint paid him his wonted reverence, and left the tent.

Arrived in his own, he threw himself on the couch like a heart-broken
man.

"No help! no guidance!" thought he.  "I am desolate and alone.  I never
thought to have been left without a guide from God.  He leaves me with
my sins upon my soul, unconfessed, unabsolved; and, thus burdened and
rebuked, I must enter upon the course which I dare not refuse.  But this
voice within me which bids me go--whence and what is it?  Whence is it
but from God?  And how can I therefore say that I am alone?  There is no
man that I can rely on--not even one of Christ's anointed priests; but
is there not He who redeemed men? and will He reject me if, in my
obedience, I come to Him?  I will try--I will dare.  I am alone; and He
will hear and help me."

Without priest, without voice, without form of words, he confessed and
prayed, and no longer felt that he was alone.  He arose, clear in mind
and strong in heart: wrote and sealed up his resignation of his
commission, stepped into the next tent to rouse the three boys, desiring
them to dress for early mass, and prepare for their return to their
homes immediately afterwards.  He then entered his own inner apartment,
where Papalier was sleeping so soundly that it was probable the early
movements of saint's-day festivities in the camp would not awaken him.
As he could not show himself abroad till the General's protection was
secured, his host let him sleep on; opening and shutting his clothes'
chest, and going through the whole preparation for appearance on the
parade in full uniform, without disturbing his wearied guest, who hardly
moved even at the roll of the drum, and the stir of morning in the camp.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE ACT.

Papalier was probably the only person in the valley who did not attend
mass on this saint's-day morning.  The Spanish general was early seen,
surrounded by his staff, moving towards the rising ground, outside the
camp, on which stood the church, erected for the use of the troops when
the encampment was formed.  The soldiers, both Spanish and negro, had
some time before filed out of their tents, and been formed for their
short march; and they now came up in order, the whites approaching on
the right, and the blacks on the left, till their forces joined before
the church.  The sun had not yet shone down into the valley, and the dew
lay on the grass, and dropped like rain from the broad eaves of the
church-roof--from the points of the palm-leaves with which it was
thatched.

This church was little more than a covered enclosure.  It was well
shaded from the heat of the sun by its broad and low roof; but, between
the corner posts, the sides could hardly be said to be filled in by the
bamboos which stood like slender columns at intervals of several inches,
so that all that passed within could be seen from without, except that
the vestry and the part behind the altar had their walls interwoven with
withes, so as to be impervious to the eye.  The ground was strewn thick
with moss,--cushioned throughout for the knees of the worshippers.  The
seats were rude wooden benches, except the chair, covered with damask,
which was reserved for the Marquis d'Hermona.

Here the General took his place, his staff ranging themselves on the
benches behind.  Jean Francais entered after him, and seated himself on
the opposite range of benches.  Next followed Toussaint Breda, alone,
having left his sons outside with the soldiers.  Some few more advanced
towards the altar; it being understood that those who did so wished to
communicate.  An interval of a few empty benches was then left, and the
lower end of the church was thronged by such of the soldiery as could
find room; the rest closing in round the building, so as to hear the
voice of the priest, and join in the service.

There was a gay air about the assemblage, scarcely subdued by the place,
and the occasion which brought them to it.  Almost every man carried a
stem of the white amaryllis, plucked from among the high grass, with
which it grew thickly intermixed all over the valley; and beautiful to
the eye were the snowy, drooping blossoms, contrasted with the rich dark
green of their leaves.  Some few brought twigs of the orange and the
lime; and the sweet odour of the blossoms pervaded the place like a holy
incense, as the first stirring airs of morning breathed around and
through the building.  There were smiles on almost every face; and a hum
of low but joyous greetings was heard without, till the loud voice of
the priest, reciting the Creed, hushed every other.  The only
countenance of great seriousness present was that of Toussaint, and his
bore an expression of solemnity, if not of melancholy, which struck
every one who looked upon him--and he always was looked upon by every
one.  His personal qualities had strongly attracted the attention of the
Spanish general.  Jean Francais watched his every movement with the
mingled triumph and jealousy of a superior in rank, but a rival in fame;
and by the negro troops he was so beloved, that nothing but the strict
discipline which he enforced could have prevented their following him in
crowds wherever he went.  Whenever he smiled, as he passed along, in
conversation, they laughed without inquiring why; and now, this morning,
on observing the gravity of his countenance, they glanced from one to
another, as if to inquire the cause.

The priest, having communicated, at length descended from before the
altar, to administer the water to such as desired to receive it.  Among
these, Toussaint bent his head lowest--so low, that the first slanting
sunbeam that entered beneath the thatch seemed to rest upon his head,
while every other head remained in the shadow of the roof.  In after
days, the negroes then present recalled this appearance.  Jean Francais,
observing that General Hermona was making some remark about Toussaint to
the officers about him, endeavoured to assume an expression of deep
devotion also; but in vain.  No one thought of saying of him what the
General was at that moment saying of his brother in arms--"God could not
visit a soul more pure."

When the blessing had been given, and the few concluding verses of
Scripture read, the General was the first to leave his place.  It seemed
as if he and Toussaint moved towards one another by the same impulse,
for they met in the aisle between the benches.

"I have a few words of business to speak with you, General--a work of
justice to ask you to perform without delay," said Toussaint.

"Good!" said the General.  "In justice there should be no delay.  I will
therefore breakfast with you in your tent.  Shall we proceed?"

He put his arm within that of Toussaint, who, however, gently withdrew
his, and stepped back with a profound bow of respect.  General Hermona
looked as if he scarcely knew whether to take this as an act of
humility, or to be offended; but he smiled on Toussaint's saying--

"It is not without reasons that I decline honour in this place this
morning--reasons which I will explain.  Shall I conduct you to my tent?
And these gentlemen of your staff?"

"As we have business, my friend, I will come alone.  I shall be sorry if
there is any quarrel between us, Toussaint.  If you have to ask justice
of me, I declare to you I know not the cause."

"It is not for myself, General, that I ask justice.  I have ever
received from you more than justice."

"You have attached your men to yourself with singular skill," said the
General, on their way down the slope from the church, as he closely
observed the countenances of the black soldiers, which brightened, as if
touched by the sunlight, on the approach of their commander.  "Their
attachment to you is singular.  I no longer wonder at your achievements
in the field."

"It is by no skill of mine," replied Toussaint; "it is by the power of
past tyranny.  The hearts of negroes are made to love.  Hitherto, all
love in which the mind could share has been bestowed upon those who
degraded and despised them.  In me they see one whom, while obeying,
they may love as a brother."

"The same might be said of Jean Francais, as far as your reasons go; but
Jean Francais is not beloved like you.  He looks gayer than you, my
friend, notwithstanding.  He is happy in his new rank, probably.  You
have heard that he is ennobled by the court of Spain?"

"I had not heard it.  It will please him."

"It evidently does.  He is made a noble; and his military rank is now
that of lieutenant-General.  Your turn will come next, my friend; and if
promotion went strictly according to personal merit, no one would have
been advanced sooner than you."

"I do not desire promotion, and--"

"Ah! there your stoical philosophy comes in.  But I will show you
another way of applying it.  Rank brings cares; so that one who is not a
stoic may have an excuse for shrinking from it; but a stoic despises
cares.  Ha! we have some young soldiers here," he said, as Moyse and his
cousins stood beside the way, to make their obeisance; "and very perfect
soldiers they look, young as they are.  They seem born for military
service."

"They were born slaves, my lord; but they have now the loyal hearts of
freemen within them, amidst the ignorance and follies of their youth."

"They are--"

"My nephew and my two sons, my lord."

"And why mounted at this hour?"

"They are going to their homes, by my direction."

"If it were not that you have business with me, which I suppose you
desire them not to overhear--"

"It is as you say, General."

"If it had not been so, I would have requested that they might be at our
table this morning.  As it is, I will not delay their journey."

And the General touched his hat to the lads, with a graciousness which
made them bend low their uncovered heads, and report marvels at home of
the deportment of the Marquis d'Hermona.  Seeing how their father was
occupied, they were satisfied with a grasp of his hand as he passed,
received from him a letter for their mother, and waited only till he and
his guest had disappeared within the tent, to gallop off.  They wondered
at being made the bearers of a letter, as they knew that his horse was
ordered to be ready beside his tent immediately after breakfast, and had
not a doubt of his arriving at the shore almost as soon as themselves.

Papalier was lounging on the couch beside the table where breakfast was
spread, when General Hermona and his host offered.  He started up,
casting a look of doubt upon Toussaint.

"Fear nothing, Monsieur Papalier," said Toussaint; "General Hermona has
engaged to listen to my plea for justice.  My lord, Monsieur Papalier
was amicably received by your lordship on crossing the frontier, and, on
the strength of your welcome, has remained on the island till too late
to escape, without your especial protection, a fate he dreads."

"You mean being delivered up as a republican?"

"Into the hands of my own negroes, my lord," said Papalier, bitterly.
"That is the fate secretly designed for any unfortunate planter who may
yet have survived the recent troubles over the frontier."

"But how can I protect you?  The arrangement is none of mine: I cannot
interfere with it."

"Only by forgetting in this single instance the point of time at which
we have arrived, and furnishing me with a pass which shall enable me to
sail for Europe, as I acknowledge I ought to have done long ago."

"So this is the act of justice you asked from me, Toussaint.  Why did
you not say favour?  I shall do it with much more pleasure as a slight
favour to one whom I strongly regard.  You shall have your safe-conduct,
Monsieur Papalier.  In the meantime--"

And he looked towards the steaming chocolate and the piles of fruit on
the table, as if his appetite were growing urgent.

"One word more, my lord, before offering you my welcome to my table,"
said Toussaint.  "I beseech you to consider the granting this pass as an
act of justice, or of anything rather than favour to me.  Yesterday, I
would have accepted a hundred favours from you: to-day, with equal
respect, I must refuse even one.  I pledge myself to tell you why before
you rise from table, to which I now invite you."

"I do not understand all this, Toussaint."

"I have pledged myself to explain."

"And you say there is no personal feeling--no offence between us?"

"If any, my lord, I alone am the offender.  Will you be pleased to--"

"Oh, yes, I will breakfast; and was never more ready.  Monsieur
Papalier, our morning mass has kept you waiting, I fear."

Papalier seated himself, but was near starting up again when he saw his
negro host preparing to take his place between his two quests, Papalier
had never yet sat at table with a negro, and his impulse was to resent
the necessity; but a stern look from the General warned him to submit
quietly to the usages of the new state of society which he had remained
to witness; and he sat through the meal, joining occasionally in the
conversation, which, for his sake, was kept clear of subjects which
might annoy him.

As soon as the servants, after producing pen, ink, and paper, had
withdrawn, the General wrote a safe-conduct, and delivered it to
Monsieur Papalier, with an intimation that an attendant should be ready
to guide him to the nearest port, at his earliest convenience.  Papalier
understood this as it was meant--as a hint that there must be no delay.
He declared, therefore, his wish to depart, as soon as the heat of the
day should decline.

"And now, my lord--," said Toussaint, "Yes, now for the explanation of
this fancy of not receiving kindness from your best friends.  Let us
hear."

"I have this morning, my lord, despatched letters to Don Joachim Garcia,
at Saint Domingo--"

"You are in communication with the Colonial Government; and not through
me!  What can this mean?"

"And here, my lord, are exact copies of my letters, which I request the
favour of you to read, and, if I may be permitted to say so, without
haste or prejudice--though, in this case, it is much to ask."

Toussaint disappeared in the inner apartment; but not before he saw a
smile on Papalier's face--a smile which told of amusement at the idea of
a negro sending dispatches of any importance to the head of the
government of the Spanish colony.

The General did not seem to feel any of the same amusement.  His
countenance was perplexed and anxious.  He certainly obeyed Toussaint's
wishes as to not being in haste: for he read the papers (which were few
and short) again and again.  He had not laid them down when Toussaint
re-appeared from within--no longer glittering in his uniform and
polished arms, but dressed in his old plantation clothes, and with his
woollen cap in his hand.  Both his guests first gazed at him, and then
started from their seats.

Toussaint merely passed through the tent, bowing low to the General, and
bidding him farewell.  A confused noise outside, followed by a shout,
roused Hermona from his astonishment.

"He is addressing the troops!" he cried, drawing his sword, and rushing
forth.

Toussaint was not addressing the troops.  He was merely informing
Jacques, whom he had requested to lie in waiting there, beside his
horse, that he was no longer a commander--no longer in the forces; and
that the recent proclamation, by showing him that the cause of negro
freedom was now one with that of the present government of France, was
the reason of his retirement from the Spanish territory.  He explained
himself thus far, in order that he might not be considered a traitor to
the lost cause of royalty in France; but, rather, loyal to that of his
colour, from the first day of its becoming a cause.

Numbers became aware that something unusual was going forward, and were
thronging to the spot, when the General rushed forth, sword in hand,
shouting aloud--

"The traitor!  Seize the traitor!  Soldiers! seize the traitor!"

Toussaint turned in an instant, and sprang upon his horse.  Not a negro
would lay hands on him; but they cast upon him, in token of honour, the
blossoms of the amaryllis and the orange that they carried.  The Spanish
soldiers, however, endeavoured to close round him and hem him in, as the
General's voice was still heard--

"Seize him!  Bring him in, dead or alive!"

Toussaint, however, was a perfect horseman; and his favourite horse
served him well in this crisis.  It burst through, or bounded over, all
opposition, and, amidst a shower of white blossoms which strewed the
way, instantly carried him beyond the camp.  Well-mounted soldiers, and
many of them, were behind, however; and it was a hard race between the
fugitive and his pursuers, as it was witnessed from the camp.  Along the
river bank, and over the bridge, the danger of Toussaint appeared
extreme; and the negroes, watching the countenance of Jacques, preserved
a dead silence when all the horsemen had disappeared in the woods which
clothed the steep.  Then all eyes were turned towards the summit of that
ridge, where the road crossed a space clear of trees; and there, in an
incredibly short time, appeared the solitary horseman, who, unencumbered
with heavy arms, and lightly clothed, had greatly the advantage of the
soldiers in mounting the ascent.  He was still followed; but he was just
disappearing over the ridge, when the foremost soldier issued from the
wood behind him.

"He is safe! he is safe!" was murmured through the throng; and the words
reached the ears of the General in a tone which convinced him that the
attachment of the black troops to Toussaint Breda was as strong as he
himself had that morning declared it to be.

"Now you see, General," said Papalier, turning into the tent, from which
he too had come forth in the excitement of the scene--"you see what you
have to expect from these negroes."

"I see what I have to expect from you," replied the General, with
severity.  "It is enough to witness how you speak of a man to whom you
owe your life this very day--and not for the first time."

"Nay, General, I have called him no names--not even `traitor.'"

"I have not owed him my life, Monsieur Papalier; and you are not the
commander of these forces.  It is my duty to prevent the defection of
the negro troops; and I therefore used the language of the government I
serve in proclaiming him a traitor.  Had it been in mere speculation
between him and myself that those papers had come in question, God knows
I should have called him something very different."

"There is something in the man that infatuates--that blinds one's
judgment, certainly," said Papalier.  "His master, Bayou, spoiled him
with letting him educate himself to an absurd extent.  I always told
Bayou so; and there is no saying now what the consequences may be.  It
is my opinion that we have not heard the last of him yet."

"Probably," said the General, gathering up his papers as his aide
entered, and leaving the tent in conversation with him, almost without a
farewell notice of Papalier.

The negro troops were busy to a man, in learning from Jacques, and
repeating to one another, the particulars of what was in the
proclamation, and the reasons of Toussaint's departure.  General Hermona
found that the two remaining black leaders, Jean Francais and Biasson,
were not infected by Toussaint's convictions; that, on the contrary,
they were far from sorry that he was thus gone, leaving them to the full
enjoyment of Spanish grace.  They addressed their soldiers in favour of
loyalty, and in denunciation of treason, and treated the proclamation as
slightly as Don Joachim Garcia could possibly have wished.  They met
with little response, however; and every one felt, amidst the show and
parade and festivity of the day, a restlessness and uncertainty which he
perceived existed no less in his neighbour than in himself.  No one's
mind was in the business or enjoyment of the festival; and no one could
be greatly surprised at anything that might take place, though the men
were sufficiently orderly in the discharge of their duty to render any
interference with them unwarrantable, and any precautions against their
defection impossible.  The great hope lay in the influence of the two
leaders who remained, as the great fear was of that of the one who was
gone.

The Spanish force was small, constituting only about one-fourth of the
whole; and of these, the best mounted had not returned from the pursuit
of Toussaint;--not because they could follow him far in the enemy's
country, but because it required some skill and caution to get back in
broad day, after having roused expectation all along the road.

While the leaders were anxiously calculating probabilities, and
reckoning forces, Jacques was satisfying himself that the preponderance
of numbers was greatly on the side of his absent friend.  His hatred of
the whites, which had never intermitted, was wrought up to strong
passion this day by the treatment the proclamation and his friend had
received.  He exulted in the thought of being able to humble the
Spaniards by withdrawing the force which enabled them to hold their
posts, and by making him whom they called a traitor more powerful in the
cause of the blacks than they could henceforth be in that of royalist
France.  Fired with these thoughts, he was hastily passing the tent of
Toussaint, which he had supposed deserted, when he heard from within,
speaking in anger and fear, a voice which he well knew, and which had
power over him.  He had strong reasons for remembering the first time he
had seen Therese--on the night of the escape across the frontier.  She
was strongly associated with his feelings towards the class to which her
owner belonged; and he knew that she, beautiful, lonely, and wretched,
shared those feelings.  If he had not known this from words dropped by
her during the events of this morning, he would have learned it now; for
she was declaring her thoughts to her master, loudly enough for any one
who passed by to overhear.

Jacques entered the tent, and there stood Therese, declaring that she
would leave her master, and never see him more, but prevented from
escaping by Papalier having intercepted her passage to the entrance.
Her eyes glowed with delight on the appearance of Jacques, to whom she
immediately addressed herself.

"I will not go with him--I will not go with him to Paris, to see his
young ladies.  He shall not take care of me.  I will take care of
myself.  I will drown myself sooner than go with him.  I do not care
what becomes of me, but I will not go."

"Yes, you will care what becomes of you, Therese, because your own
people care," said Jacques.  "I will protect you.  If you will be my
wife, no white shall molest you again."

"Be your wife!"

"Yes.  I love the blacks; and none so much as those whom the whites have
oppressed--no one so much as you.  If you will be my wife, we will--"

Here, remembering the presence of a white, Jacques explained to Therese
in the negro language (which she understood, though she always spoke
French), the new hopes which had arisen for the blacks, and his own
intention of following Toussaint, to make him a chief.  He concluded in
good French, smiling maliciously at Papalier as he spoke--

"You will come with me now to the priest, and be my wife."

"I will," replied Therese, calmly.

"Go," said Papalier.  "You have my leave.  I am thus honourably released
from the care of you till times shall change.  I am glad that you will
not remain unprotected, at least."

"Unprotected!" exclaimed Therese, as she threw on the Spanish mantle
which she was now accustomed to wear abroad.  "Unprotected!  And what
has your protection been?"

"Very kind, my dear, I am sure.  I have spent on your education money
which I should be very glad of now.  When people flatter you, Therese
(as they will do; for there is not a negress in all the island to
compare with you),--remember who made you a lady.  You will promise me
that much, Therese, at parting?"

"Remember who made me a lady!--I have forgotten too long who made me a
woman," said Therese, devoutly upraising her eyes.  "In serving Him and
loving my husband, I will strive to forget you."

"All alike!" muttered Papalier, as the pair went out.  "This is what one
may expect from negroes, as the General will leant when he has had
enough to do with them.  They are all alike."

This great event in the life of Jacques Dessalines did not delay his
proceedings for more than half-an-hour.  Noon was but just past, when he
led forth his wife from the presence of the priest, mounted her on his
own horse before his tent, and sent her forward under the escort of his
personal servant, promising to overtake her almost as soon as she should
have crossed the river.  When she was gone, he sent the word through the
negro soldiery, who gathered round him almost to a man, and with the
quietness which became their superior force.  Jean Francais and Biasson
were left with scarcely twenty followers each; and those few would do
nothing.  The whites felt themselves powerless amidst the noonday heats,
and opposed to threefold numbers: and their officers found that nothing
was to be done but to allow them to look on quietly, while Jacques led
away his little army, with loud music and a streaming white flag.  A few
horsemen led the van, and closed in the rear.  The rest marched, as if
on a holiday trip, now singing to the music of the band, and now making
the hills ring again with the name of Toussaint Breda.

As General Hermona, entirely indisposed for his siesta, watched the
march through his glass from the entrance of his tent, while the notes
of the wind-instruments swelled and died away in the still air, one of
his aides was overheard by him to say to another--

"The General has probably changed his opinion since he said to you this
morning, of Toussaint Breda, that God could not visit a soul more pure.
We have all had to change our minds rather more rapidly than suits such
a warm climate."

"You may have changed your opinions since the sun rose, gentlemen," said
Hermona; "but I am not sure that I have."

"How!  Is it possible?  We do not understand you, my lord."

"Do you suppose that you understand him?  Have we been of a degraded
race, slaves, and suddenly offered restoration to full manhood and
citizenship?  How otherwise can we understand this man?  I do not
profess to do so."

"You think well of him, my lord?"

"I am so disposed.  Time, however, will show.  He has gone away
magnanimously enough, alone, and believing, I am confident, from what
Father Laxabon tells me, that his career is closed; but I rather think
we shall hear more of him."

"How these people revel in music!" observed one of the staff.  "How they
are pouring it forth now!"

"And not without reason, surely," said Hermona.  "It is their exodus
that we are watching."



CHAPTER EIGHT.

BREDA AGAIN.

The French proclamation was efficiently published along the line of
march of the blacks.  They shouted and sang the tidings of their
freedom, joining with them the name of Toussaint Breda.  These tidings
of freedom rang through the ravines, and echoed up the sides of the
hills, and through the depths of the forests, startling the wild birds
on the mountain-ponds and the deer among the high ferns; and bringing
down from their fastnesses a multitude of men who had fled thither from
the vengeance of the whites and mulattoes, and to escape sharing in the
violence of the negro force which Jean Francais had left behind him, to
pursue uncontrolled their course of plunder and butchery.  Glad, to
such, were the tidings of freedom, with order, and under the command of
one whose name was never mentioned without respect, if not enthusiasm.
The negro who did not know that there was any more world on the other
side the Cibao peaks, had yet learned to be proud of the learning of
Toussaint.  The slave who conceived of God as dwelling in the innermost
of the Mornes, and coming forth to govern His subjects with the fire of
the lightning and the scythe of the hurricane, was yet able to revere
the piety of Toussaint.  The black bandit who had dipped his hands in
the blood of his master, and feasted his ear with the groans of the
innocent babes who had sat upon his knee, yet felt that there was
something impressive in the simple habit of forgiveness, the vigilant
spirit of mercy which distinguished Toussaint Breda from all his
brethren in arms--from all the leading men of his colour, except his
friend Henri Christophe.  At the name of Toussaint Breda, then, these
flocked down into the road by hundreds, till they swelled the numbers of
the march to thousands.  The Spanish soldiers, returning to their camp
by such by-ways as they could find, heard again and again from a
distance the cries of welcome and of triumph; and one or two of them
chanced to witness from a high point of rock, or through a thick screen
of foliage, the joyous progress of the little army, hastening on to find
their chief.  These involuntary spies gathered at every point of
observation news which would gall the very soul of Jean Francais, if
they should get back to the camp to tell it.

Jacques knew where to seek his friend, and led the way, on descending
from the hills, straight across the plain to the Breda estate, where
Toussaint meant to await his family.  How unlike was this plantation to
what it was when these negroes had seen it last!  The cane-fields,
heretofore so trim and orderly, with the tall canes springing from the
clean black soil, were now a jungle.  The old plants had run up till
they had leaned over with their own weight, and fallen upon one another.
Their suckers had sprung up in myriads, so that the racoon which
burrowed among them could scarcely make its way in and out.  The grass
on the little enclosed lawns grew so rank, that the cattle, now wild,
were almost hidden as they lay down in it; and so uneven and unsightly
were the patches of growth, that the blossoming shrubs with which it had
been sprinkled for ornament, now looked forlorn and out of place,
flowering amidst the desolation.  The slave-quarter was scarcely
distinguishable from the wood behind it, so nearly was it overgrown with
weeds.  A young foal was browsing on the thatch, and a crowd of
glittering lizards darted out and away on the approach of human feet.

Jacques did not stay at the slave-quarter; but he desired his company to
remain there and in the neighbouring field, while he went with Therese
to bring out their chief to them.  They went up to the house; but in no
one of its deserted chambers did they find Toussaint.

"Perhaps he is in his own cottage," said Therese.

"Is it possible," replied Jacques, "that, with this fine house all to
himself, he should take up with that old hut?"

"Let us see," said Therese; "for he is certainly not here."

When they readied Toussaint's cottage, it was no easy matter to know how
to effect an entrance.  Enormous gourds had spread their network over
the ground, like traps for the feet of trespassers.  The front of the
piazza was completely overgrown with the creepers which had been brought
there only to cover the posts, and hang their blossoms from the eaves.
They had now spread and tangled themselves, till they made the house
look like a thicket.  In one place, however, between two of the posts,
they had been torn down, and the evening wind was tossing the loose
coils about.  Jacques entered the gap, and immediately looked out again,
smiling, and beckoning Therese to come and see.  There, in the piazza,
they found Toussaint, stretched asleep upon the bench--so soundly
asleep, for once, that the whispers of his friends did not alter, for a
moment, his heavy breathing.

"How tired he must be!" said Jacques.  "At other times I have known his
sleep so light, that he was broad awake as quick as a lizard, if a
beetle did but sail over his head."

"He may well be tired," said Therese.  "You know how weary he looked at
mass this morning.  I believe he had no rest last night; and now this
march to-day--"

"Well!  He must rouse up now, however; for his business will not wait."
And he called him by his name.

"Henri!" cried Toussaint, starting up.

"No, not Henri.  I am Jacques.  You are not awake yet, and the place is
dark.  I am your friend Jacques, five inches shorter than Henri.  You
see?"

"You here, Jacques! and Therese!  Surely I am not awake yet."

"Yes, you are, now you know Therese--whom you will henceforth look upon
as my wife.  We are both free of the whites now, for ever."

"Is it possible?"

"It is true; and we will fell you all presently.  But first explain why
you called me Henri as you woke.  If we could see Henri--Why did you
name Henri--"

"Because he was the next person I expected to see.  I met one on the way
who knew where he was, and took a message to him."

"If we could learn from Henri--" said Jacques.

"Here is Henri," said the calm, kindly, well-known voice of the powerful
Christophe, who now showed himself outside.  The other went out to him,
and greeted him heartily.

"What news, Henri?" asked Toussaint.  "How are affairs at Cap?  What is
doing about the proclamation there?"

"Affairs are going badly at Cap.  The mulattoes will no more bear our
proclamation than the whites would bear theirs.  They have shut up
General Laveaux in prison; and the French, without their military
leader, do not know what to do next.  The commissary has no authority,
and talks of embarking for France; and the troops are cursing the
negroes, for whose sake, they say, their General is imprisoned, and will
soon die of the heats."

"We must deliver General Laveaux," said Toussaint.  "Our work already
lies straight before us.  We must raise a force.  Henri, can you bring
soldiers?"

"Ay, Henri," said Jacques, "what force can you bring to join ours?
General Toussaint Breda has six thousand here at hand, half of whom are
disciplined soldiers, well armed.  The rest are partially armed, and
have strong hearts and ready hands."

Toussaint turned round, as if to know what Jacques could mean.

"General," said Jacques, "the army I speak of is there, among those
fields, burning to greet you their commander; but in the meantime, I
believe, supping heartily on whatever they can find in your wilderness
here, in the shape of maize, pumpkins, and plantains--and what else, you
know better than?  That is right, Therese; rest yourself in the piazza,
and I will bring you some supper, too."

"Six thousand, did you say, Jacques?" said Henri.  "I can rally two
thousand this night, and more will join on the way."

"We must free Laveaux before sunrise," said Toussaint.  "Will our troops
be fit for a march after this supper of theirs, Jacques--after supper
and three hours' rest?"

"They are fit at this moment to march over the island--to swim from
Saint Domingo to France, if you will only lead them," replied Jacques.
"Go to them, and they will do what you will."

"So be it!" said Toussaint, his bosom for a moment heaving with the
thought that his career, even as viewed by Father Laxabon, was not
ended.  "Henri, what is the state of the plain?  Is the road open?"

"Far from it.  The mulattoes are suspicious, and on the watch against
some danger--I believe they are not clear what.  I avoided some of their
scouts; and the long way they made me go round was the reason of my
being late."

Observing that Toussaint looked thoughtful, he proceeded: "I imagine
there is no force in the plain that could resist your numbers, if you
are sure of your troops.  The road is open, if they choose that it be
so."

"I am sure of only half of them; and then there is the town.  It seems
to me, Jacques, that I may more depend upon my troops, in their present
mood, for a merry night march, though it be a long one, than for a
skirmish through the plain, though it be a short one."

Jacques assented.  It was agreed that the little army should proceed by
the mountain tracts, round by Plaisance and Gros Morne, so as to arrive
by the Haut-du-Cap, in which direction it was not likely that a foe
should be looked for.  Thus they could pour into the town from the
western heights before sunrise, while the scouts of the mulatto rebels
were looking for them across the eastern plain.

This settled, Jacques went down among his forces, to tell them that
their general was engaged in a council of war--Henri Christophe having
joined from Cap, with a promise of troops, and with intelligence which
would open the way to victory and freedom.  The general allowed them ten
minutes more for refreshment, and to form themselves into order; and he
would then present himself to them.  Shouting was forbidden, lest any
foe should be within hearing; but a murmur of delight and mutual
congratulation ran through the ranks, which were beginning to form while
the leader of their march was yet speaking.  He retreated, carrying with
him the best arms he could select for the use of his general.

While he was gone, Toussaint stepped back into the piazza, where Therese
sat quietly watching the birds flitting in and out among the foliage and
flowers.

"Therese," said he, "what will you do this night and to-morrow?  Who
will take care of you?"

"I know not--I care not," said she.  "There are no whites here; and I am
well where they are not.  Will you not let me stay here?"

"Did Jacques say, and say truly, that you are his wife?"

"He said so, and truly.  I have been wretched, for long--"

"And sinful.  Wretchedness and sin go together."

"And I was sinful; but no one told me so.  I was ignorant, and weak, and
a slave.  Now I am a woman and a wife.  No more whites, no more sin, no
more misery!  Will you not let me stay here?"

"I will: and here you will presently be safe, and well cared for, I
hope.  My wife and my children are coming home--coming, probably in a
few hours.  They will make this a home to you till Jacques can give you
one of your own.  You shall be guarded here till my Margot arrives.
Shall it be so?"

"Shall it?  Oh, thank God!  Jacques," she cried, as she heard her
husband's step approaching.  "Oh, Jacques!  I am happy.  Toussaint Breda
is kind--he has forgiven me--he welcomes me--his wife will--"

Tears drowned her voice.  Toussaint said gently--

"It is not for me to forgive, Therese, whom you have never offended.
God has forgiven, I trust, your young years of sin.  You will atone
(will you not?) by the purity of your life--by watching over others,
lest they suffer as you have done.  You will guard the minds of my young
daughters: will you not?  You will thank God through my Genifrede, my
Aimee?"

"I will, I will," she eagerly cried, lifting up her face, bright through
her tears.  "Indeed my heart will be pure--longs to be pure."

"I know it, Therese," said Toussaint.  "I have always believed it, and I
now know it."

He turned to Jacques and said--

"You declare yourself to be under my command?"

"Yes, Toussaint; you are my general."

"Well, then, I appoint you to the duty of remaining here, with a troop,
to guard my family (who are coming in a few hours), and this estate.  I
have some hopes of doing what I want at Cap without striking a blow; and
you will be better here.  You hate the whites too much to like my
warfare.  Farewell, Therese!  Jacques, follow me, to receive your
troop."



CHAPTER NINE.

THE MAN.

The town of Cap Francais was next morning in a hurry, which attracted
the attention of General Laveaux in his prison, and the French
commissary, Polverel, on board the vessel in the roads, in which he had
taken refuge from the mulattoes, and where he held himself in readiness
to set sail for France, in case of any grave disaster befalling the
General or the troops.  From his cell, Laveaux heard in the streets the
tramp of horses and of human feet; and from the deck of the _Orphee_,
Polverel watched through his glass the bustle on the wharves, and the
putting off of more than one boat, which prepared him to receive news.

The news came.  The report was universal in the town that Toussaint
Breda had gone over from the allies to the side of republican France;
and that this step had been followed by a large defection from the
allied forces.  Messengers had arrived, one after another, with
dispatches which had been intercepted by the mulattoes.  These who
brought them, however, had given out that some posts had been
surrendered, without a summons, into the hands of the French.  This was
certainly the case with Marmalade and Plaisance; and others were
confidently spoken of.

"Offered to our hands just when our hands are tied, and we cannot take
them!" said Polverel.  "If our fresh regiments would only arrive to-day,
and help us to wrench the prison keys from the hands of those devils of
mulattoes, and let out Laveaux, the colony would be ours before night."

As he spoke, he swept the horizon to the north and east with his glass;
but no welcome sail was visible.

"Now look the other way," said the commander of the vessel; "if there is
no help at sea, try if there be none on land.  I have been watching that
mountain-side for some time; and, if I am not much mistaken, there is an
army of dusky fellows there."

"Dusky! mulattoes! then we are lost!" cried Polverel.  "If the mulattoes
from the south have come up in any numbers--"

"They are black as the night that is just gone," said the commander,
still keeping his eye fixed on the western heights above the town.
"See, the sun strikes them now.  They are blacks.  The negroes under
Toussaint himself, very probably.  I shall not have the pleasure of
carrying you to France just yet, Monsieur Polverel."

Notwithstanding the display of black forces on the Haut-du-Cap, the
bustle of the town seemed to be in the opposite direction.  A few shots
were fired in the south-east quarter, and some smoke arose from thence.
This was soon explained by the news that Henri Christophe had approached
the town from the plain, with four or five thousand men, and was forcing
an entrance that way.  There was little conflict.  Toussaint poured down
his force through the barracks, where the French soldiers gave him a
hearty welcome, and along the avenues of Government-House, and the
neighbouring public offices, in which quarter the mulattoes had little
interest.  Within an hour, the mulattoes had all slunk back into their
homes, telling their families that they could have dealt with the French
alone, but that they could not withstand an army of twenty thousand men
(only doubling the real number), which had dropped from the clouds, for
aught they knew.  The few dead bodies were removed, the sand sucked up
their blood, and the morning wind blew dust over its traces.  A boat was
sent off, in due form, to bring Commissary Polverel home to
Government-House.  Toussaint himself went to the prison to bring out
General Laveaux, with every demonstration of respect; and all presently
wore the aspect of a jour-de-fete.

Hour by hour tidings were spread which increased the joy of the French,
and the humiliation of their foes.  The intercepted dispatches were
given up, and more arrived with the news of the successive defection
from the allies of all the important posts in the colony, held by negro
forces.  In the name of Toussaint Breda, the garrisons of Marmalade and
Plaisance first declared for republican France; and after them, Gros
Morne, Henneri, and Le Dondon.

The news of the acquisition of these last arrived in the evening, when
the French officials were entertaining the negro chief in the salon of
Government-House.  It was late: the house was brilliantly lighted; and
its illuminations were reflected from a multitude of faces without.
Late as it was, and great as had been the fatigues of the negro troops,
they were not yet weary of hearing the praises of their own Toussaint.
Adding their numbers to those of the white inhabitants of Cap, they
thronged the court of Government-House and the Jesuits' Walk; and even
in the Place d'Archer and the Rue Espagnole, passengers found it
difficult to make their way.  The assemblage could scarcely have told
what detained them there, unless it were the vague expectation of more
news, the repetition of the praises they loved to hear, and, perhaps,
some hope of getting one more glimpse of Toussaint on this night of his
triumph.  From mouth to mouth circulated the words which General Laveaux
had spoken in the morning, when released from his prison--"This man is
the saviour of the whites--the avenger of the authorities.  He is surely
the black, the Spartacus predicted by Raynal, whose destiny it should be
to avenge the wrongs of his race."  From mouth to month went these
words; and from heart to heart spread the glow they kindled.

Toussaint himself had heard these words; and in his heart also were they
glowing.  As he sat at table, refreshing himself with fruits, but
(according to his invariable custom) refusing wine, he was reminded by
all that passed that his career was not ended.  He wore the uniform of
brigadier-general--a token that he had not lost rank.  Monsieur Polverel
had declared his intention of soon returning to France; and General
Laveaux had said that when he was thus left in charge of the colony, he
should entreat General Toussaint, who best understood its affairs, to
fill the office of lieutenant-governor, and should also be guided in
military affairs implicitly by his counsels.  Toussaint heard, and felt
that, in truth, his career was not ended.  He was requested to name a
day when he would take the oaths publicly, and receive the homage of the
grateful colony; and in his reply he took occasion to declare with
earnestness that his present course of action originated altogether in
the decree of the Convention in favour of the negroes; and that the
resources of his power and influence should all be directed towards
raising his race to that intellectual and moral equality with the
whites, without which they could neither enjoy nor retain the political
equality which the Convention had decreed.  In the midst of the strongly
expressed sympathy of his hosts, who were this day disposed to approve
and admire all he said and did--while they were uttering hopes for his
own people which touched his soul, the final news of this great day was
brought in, contained in dispatches which told of the acquisition of the
posts of Limbe and l'Aeul--the two bars to the north-western peninsula
of the colony.  The commanders declared their adhesion to the cause of
the blacks and Toussaint Breda.

"Bravo!" cried the French general: "that obstinate region is ours!  We
will march through those posts to hold our festival, and the oaths shall
be taken at Port Paix.  Was not that district considered the most
obstinate, general?"

Toussaint did not answer.  He did not hear.  The mention of Port Paix
carried back his thoughts to the night when he was last there, heavy at
heart, assisting his master to escape.

"All is ours, now, through him," said Monsieur Polverel, gazing at his
guest, "Yes," rejoined Laveaux; "he is the Napoleon Bonaparte of Saint
Domingo."

"Who is he?--who is Napoleon Bonaparte?" asked Toussaint, roused to
listen.  "I have heard his name.  What has he done?"

"He is a young French artillery officer--"

"A Corsican by birth," interposed Polverel.

"Is he really?  I was not aware of that," said Laveaux.  "That
circumstance somewhat increases the resemblance of the cases.  He was
ill-used (or thought he was) by his officers, and was on the point of
joining the Turkish service, when he was employed in the defence of the
Convention, the other day.  He saved the Convention--he saved Paris--and
he is about to put off his uniform of brigadier-general" (and Laveaux
smiled and bowed as he spoke)--"like yourself, he is about to put off
his uniform of brigadier-general for that of a higher rank.  His name
was known before in connection with the siege of Toulon.  But this last
achievement is the grand one.  He has cleaved the path of the
Convention.  Polverel, did I not say rightly that General Toussaint is
the Napoleon Bonaparte of Saint Domingo?"

"Yes.  General Toussaint also is making for us an opening everywhere."

Toussaint heard the words, but they made a faint impression at the
moment of his imagination being fixed on the young artillery officer.
There were those present, however, who lost nothing of what was spoken,
and who conveyed it all to the eager ears outside.  The black
attendants, the gazers and listeners who went in and out, intoxicated
with the glory of the negro general, reported all that was said of him.
These last few words of Polverel wrought wonderfully, and were instantly
spread through the excited multitude.  A shout was presently heard,
which must have sounded far up the mountains and over the bay; and
Polverel started with surprise when his word came back to him in a
response like that of an assembled nation.  "L'ouverture!"
"L'ouverture!" cried the multitude, fully comprehending what the word
contained in its application to their chief, "Toussaint L'Ouverture!"
Henceforth, the city, the colony, the island, and, after a time, all
Europe, rang with the name of Toussaint L'Ouverture.

When Toussaint heard the cry from without, he started to his feet; and
his hosts rose also, on seeing the fire in his eye--brighter than during
the deeds of the morning.

"The general would address them," said Polverel.  "You wish to speak to
the people, General Toussaint."

"No," said Toussaint.

"What then?" inquired Laveaux.

"I would be alone," said Toussaint, stepping backwards from the table.

"Your fatigues have doubtless been great," observed Laveaux.  "Lights
shall be ordered in your apartment."

"I cannot sleep yet," said Toussaint.  "I cannot sleep till I have news
from Breda.  But I have need of thought, gentlemen; there is moonlight
and quiet in these gardens.  Permit me to leave you now."

He paced the shrubberies, cool with moonlight and with dews; and his
agitation subsided when all eyes but those of Heaven were withdrawn.
Here no flatteries met his ear--no gestures of admiration made him drop
his eyes, abashed.  Constrained as he yet felt himself in equal
intercourse with whites, new to his recognised freedom, unassured in his
acts, uncertain of the future, and (as he believed) unprepared for such
a future as was now unfolding, there was something inexpressibly irksome
and humbling in the homage of the whites--of men who understood nothing
of him, and little of his race, and who could have none but political
purposes in their intercourse with him.  He needed this evening the
sincerities as well as the soothings of nature; and it was with a sense
of relief that he cast himself once again upon her bosom, to be
instructed, with infantine belief, how small an atom he was in the
universe of God--how low a rank he held in the hierarchy of the
ministers of the Highest.

"Yet I _am_ one," thought he, as the shout of his name and now title
reached his ear, distinct, though softened by distance.  "I am an
appointed minister.  It seems as if I were the one of whom I myself have
spoken as likely to arise--not, as Laveaux says, after Raynal, to
avenge, but to repair the wrongs of my colour.  Low, indeed, are we
sunk, deep is our ignorance, abject are our wills, if such a one as I am
to be the leader of thousands--I, whose will is yet unexercised--I, who
shrink ashamed before the knowledge of the meanest white--I, so lately a
slave--so long dependent that I am an oppression to myself--am at this
hour the ruler over ten thousand wills!  The ways of God are dark, or it
might seem that He despised His negro children in committing so many of
them to so poor a guide.  But He despises nothing that He has made.  It
may be that we are too weak and ignorant to be fit for better guidance
in our new state of rights and duties.  It may be that a series of
teachers is appointed to my colour, of whom I am to be the first, only
because I am the lowest; destined to give way to wiser guides when I
have taught all that I know, and done all that I can.  May it be so!  I
will devote myself wholly; and when I have done may I be more willing to
hide myself in my cottage, or lie down in my grave, than I have been
this day to accept the new lot which I dare not refuse!--Deal gently
with me, O God! and, however I fail, let me not see my children's hearts
hardened, as hearts are hardened, by power!  Let me not see in their
faces the look of authority, nor hear in their voices the tones of
pride!  Be with my people, O Christ!  The weaker I am, the more be Thou
with them, that Thy gospel may be at last received!  The hearts of my
people are soft--they are gentle, they are weak:--let Thy gospel make
them pure--let it make them free.  Thy gospel--who has not heard of it,
and who has seen it?  May it be found in the hearts of my people, the
despised! and who shall then despise them again?  The past is all guilt
and groans.  Into the future open a better way--"

"Toussaint L'Ouverture!" he heard again from afar, and bowed his head,
overpowered with hope.

"Toussaint L'Ouverture!" repeated some light gay voices close at hand.
His boys were come, choosing to bring themselves the news from Breda--
that Margot and her daughters, and old Dessalines and Moyse were all
there, safe and happy, except for their dismay at finding the cottage
and field in such a state of desolation.

"They will not mind when they hear that they are to live in a mansion
henceforward," said Placide.  "Jean Francais had better have stood by
his colour, as we do."

"And how have you stood by your colour, my young hero?"

"I told Jean in the camp to-day--"

"Jean!  In the camp!  How came you there?"

"We were so near, that I galloped in to see what they thought of your
leaving, and who had followed you."

"Then I thank God that you are here."

"Jean caught me; but the General bade him let me go, and asked whether
the blacks made war upon children.  I told him that I was not a child;
and I told Jean that you had rather live in a cave for the sake of the
blacks, than go off to the court of Spain--"

"What made you fancy I should go there?"

"Not you, but Jean.  Jean is going, he says, because he is a noble.
There will soon be peace between France and Spain, he says; and then he
shall be a noble at the court of Spain.  I am glad he is going."

"So am I, if he thinks he shall be happy there."

"We shall be better without him," said Isaac.  "He would never be quiet
while you were made Lieutenant-Governor of Saint Domingo.  Now you will
be alone and unmolested in your power.  Where did you learn all this?"

"Every one knows it--every one in Cap.  Every one knows that Jean has
done with us, and that the Commissary is going home, and that General
Laveaux means to be guided in everything by you; and that the posts have
all surrendered in your name; and that at Port Paix--"

"Enough, enough! my boys.  Too much, for I see that your hearts are
proud."

"The Commissary and the General said that you are supreme--the idol of
your colour.  Those were their words."

"And in this there is yet no glory.  I have yet done nothing, but by
what is called accident.  Our own people were ready--by no preparation
of mine; the mulattoes were weak and taken by surprise, through
circumstances not of my ordering.  Glory there may hereafter be
belonging to our name, my boys; but as yet there is none.  I have power:
but power is less often glory than disgrace."

"Oh, father! do but listen.  Hark again!  `Toussaint L'Ouverture!'"

"I will strive to make that shout a prophecy, my sons.  Till then, no
pride!  Are you not weary?  Come in to rest.  Can you sleep in my fine
chamber here as well as at Breda?"

"Anywhere," said Isaac, sleepily.

Toussaint gave up his apartment to his sons, and went forth once more to
survey the town, and see that his troops were in their quarters.  This
done, he repaired to his friend Henri, willing for one more night to
forego his greatness; and there, in his friend's small barrack-room, the
supreme in the colony--the idol of his colour--slept, as he had hoped
for his boys, as tranquilly as if he had been at Breda.



CHAPTER TEN.

A MORNING OF OFFICE.

If the devastation attending the revolutionary wars of Saint Domingo was
great, it was repaired with singular rapidity.  Thanks to the vigorous
agencies of nature in a tropical region, the desolated plains were
presently covered with fresh harvests, and the burnt woods were buried
deep under the shadow of young forests, more beautiful than the old.
Thanks also to the government of the wisest mind in the island, the
moral evils of the struggle were made subordinate to its good results.
It was not in the power of man to bury past injuries in oblivion, while
there were continually present minds which had been debased by tyranny,
and hearts which had been outraged by cruelty; but all that could be
done was done.  Vigorous employment was made the great law of society--
the one condition of the favour of its chief; and, amidst the labours of
the hoe and the mill, the workshop and the wharf--amidst the toils of
the march and the bustle of the court, the bereaved and insulted forgot
their woes and their revenge.  A now growth of veneration and of hope
overspread the ruins of old delights and attachments, as the verdure of
the plain spread its mantle over the wrecks of mansion and of hut.  In
seven years from the kindling of the first incendiary torch on the
Plaine du Nord, it would have been hard for a stranger, landing in Saint
Domingo, to believe what had been the horrors of the war.

Of these seven years, however, the first three or four had been entirely
spent in war, and the rest disturbed by it.  Double that number of years
must pass before there could be any security that the crop planted would
ever be reaped, or that the peasants who laid out their family
burying-grounds would be carried there in full age, instead of perishing
in the field or in the woods.  The cultivators went out to their daily
work with the gun slung across their shoulders and the cutlass in their
belt: the hills were crested with forts, and the mountain-passes were
watched by scouts.  The troops were frequently reviewed in the squares
of the towns, and news was perpetually arriving of a skirmish here or
there.  The mulatto general, Rigaud, had never acknowledged the
authority of Toussaint L'Ouverture; and he was still in the field, with
a mulatto force sufficient to interrupt the prosperity of the colony,
and endanger the authority of its Lieutenant-Governor.  It was some
time, however, since Rigaud had approached any of the large towns.  The
sufferers by his incursions were the planters and field-labourers.  The
inhabitants of the towns carried on their daily affairs as if peace had
been fully established in the island, and feeling the effects of such
warfare as there was only in their occasional contributions of time and
money.

The Commander-in-chief, as Toussaint L'Ouverture was called, by the
appointment of the French commissaries, though his dignity had not yet
been confirmed from Paris--the Commander-in-chief of Saint Domingo held
his head-quarters at Port-au-Prince.  Among other considerations which
rendered this convenient, the chief was that he thus avoided much
collision with the French officials, which must otherwise have taken
place.  All the commissaries, who rapidly succeeded one another from
Paris, resided at Government-House, in Cap Francais.  Thence, they
issued orders and regulations in the name of the government at home;
orders and regulations which were sometimes practicable, sometimes
unwise, and often absurd.  If Toussaint had resided at Cap, a constant
witness of their ignorance of the minds, manners, and interests of the
blacks--if he had been there to listen to the complaints and appeals
which would have been daily made, he could scarcely have kept terms for
a single week with the French authorities.  By establishing himself in
the south, while they remained in the north, he was able quietly to
neutralise or repair much of the mischief which they did, and to execute
many of his own plans without consulting them; while many a grievance
was silently borne, many an order simply neglected, which would have
been a cause of quarrel, if any power of redress had been at hand.
Jealous as he was for the infant freedom of his race, Toussaint knew
that it would be best preserved by weaning their minds from thoughts of
anger, and their eyes from the sight of blood.  Trust in the better part
of negro nature guided him in his choice between two evils.  He
preferred that they should be misgoverned in some affairs of secondary
importance, and keep the peace, rather than that they should be governed
to their hearts' content by himself, at the risk of quarrel with the
mother-country.  He trusted to the singular power of forbearance and
forgiveness which is found in the negro race for the preservation of
friendship with the whites and of the blessings of peace; and he
therefore reserved his own powerful influence over both parties for
great occasions--interfering only when he perceived that, through
carelessness or ignorance, the French authorities were endangering some
essential liberty of those to whom they were the medium of the pleasure
of the government at home.  The blacks were aware that the vigilance of
their Commander-in-chief over their civil rights never slept, and that
his interference always availed; and these convictions ensured their
submission, or at least their not going beyond passive resistance on
ordinary occasions, and thus strengthened their habits of peace.

The Commander-in-chief held his levees at Port-au-Prince on certain days
of the month, all the year round.  No matter how far-off he might be, or
how engaged, the night before, he rarely failed to be at home on the
appointed day, at the fixed hour.  On one particular occasion, he was
known to have been out against Rigaud, day and night, for a fortnight,
and to be closely engaged as far south as Aux Cayes, the very evening
preceding the review and levee which had been announced for the 20th of
January.  Not the less for this did he appear in front of the troops in
the Place Republicaine, when the daylight gushed in from the east,
putting out the stars, whose reflection trembled in the still waters of
the bay.  The last evolutions were finished, and the smoke from the last
volley had incited away in the serene sky of January, before the
coolness of the northern breeze had yielded to the blaze of the mounting
sun.  The troops then lined the long streets of the town, and the avenue
to the palace, while the Commander-in-chief and his staff passed on, and
entered the palace-gates.

The palace, like every other building in Port-au-Prince, consisted of
one storey only.  The town had been destroyed by an earthquake in 1770;
and, though earthquakes are extremely rare in Saint Domingo, the place
had been rebuilt in view of the danger of another.  The palace therefore
covered a large piece of ground, and its principal rooms were each
nearly surrounded by garden and grass-plat.  The largest apartment, in
which the levees were always held, was the best room in the island--if
not for the richness of its furniture, for its space and proportions,
and the views which it commanded.  Not even the abode of the
Commander-in-chief could exhibit such silken sofas, marble tables,
gilded balustrades, and japanned or ivory screens, as had been common in
the mansions of the planters; and Toussaint had found other uses for
such money as he had than those of pure luxury.  The essential and
natural advantages of his palace were enough for him and his.  The door
of this, his favourite apartment, was covered with a fine India matting;
the windows were hung with white muslin curtains; and the sofas, which
stood round three sides of the room, between the numerous windows, were
covered with green damask, of no very rich quality.  In these many
windows lay the charm, commanding, as they did, extensive prospects to
the east, north, and west.  The broad verandah cast a shadow which
rendered it unnecessary to keep the jalousies closed, except during the
hottest hours of the year.  This morning every blind was swung wide
open, and the room was cool and shady, while, without, all was bathed in
the mild, golden sunshine of January--bright enough for the strongest
eye, but without glare.

To the east and north spread the Cul-de-Sac--a plain of unequalled
richness, extending to the foot of the mountains, fifteen miles into the
interior.  The sun had not yet risen so high but that these mountains
cast a deep shadow for some distance into the plain, while their skirts
were dark with coffee-groves, and their summits were strongly marked
against the glowing sky.  Amidst the wide, verdant level of the plain,
arose many a white mansion, each marked by a cluster of trees, close at
hand.  Some of these plantation houses looked bluish and cool in the
mountain shadows; others were like bright specks in the sunshine, each
surmounted by a star, if its gilded weathercock chanced to turn in the
breeze.  To the north, also, this plain, still backed by mountains,
extended till it joined the sands of the bight.

Upon these sands, on the margin of the deep blue waters, might be seen
flashing in the sun a troop of flamingoes, now moving forward in a line
into the waves, and diligently fishing; and then, on the alarm of a
scout, all taking wing successively, and keeping their order, as they
flew homewards, to the salt marshes in the interior--their scarlet
bodies vividly contrasted with the dark green of the forests that
clothed the mountain-sides.  To the west lay the broad azure sheet of
the bay, locked by the island of Gonave, and sprinkled with
fishing-boats, while under the forest-tufted rocks of the island two
vessels rode at anchor--a schooner belonging to Saint Domingo, and an
English frigate.

In the shady western piazza sat a party who seemed much occupied in
looking out upon the bay, and watching the vessels that lay under the
island; from which vessels boats might be seen putting off for the town
just at the time of the commencement of the levee.  The party in the
piazza consisted chiefly of women.  Madame L'Ouverture was there--like,
and yet unlike, the Margot of former years--employed, as usual--busy
with her needle, and motherly, complacent, tenderly vigilant as of old;
but with a matronly grace and dignity which evidently arose from a
gratified mind, and not from external state.  Her daughters were beside
her, both wonderfully improved in beauty, though Genifrede still
preserved the superiority there.  She sat a little apart from her mother
and sister netting.  Moyse was at her feet, in order to obtain the
benefit of an occasional gleam from the eyes which were cast down upon
her work.  His idolatry of her was no surprise to any who looked upon
her in her beauty, now animated and exalted by the love which she had
avowed, and which was sanctioned by her father and her family.  The
sisters were dressed nearly alike, though Aimee knew well that it would
have been politic to have avoided thus bringing herself into immediate
comparison with her sister.  But Aimee cared not what was thought of her
face, form, or dress.  Isaac had always been satisfied with them.  She
had confided in Genifrede's taste when they first assumed their rank;
and it was least troublesome to do so still.  If Isaac should wish it
otherwise when he should return from France, she would do as he desired.
Meantime, they were dressed in all essentials exactly alike, from the
pattern of the Madras handkerchief they wore (according to universal
custom) on their heads, to the cut of the French-kid shoe.  The dress
was far from resembling the European fashion of the time.  No tight
lacing; no casing in whalebone--nothing like a hoop.  A chemisette of
the finest cambric appeared within the bodice, and covered the bosom.
The short full sleeves were also of white cambric.  The bodice, and
short full skirt, were of deep yellow India silk; and the waist was
confined with a broad band of violet-coloured velvet, gaily embroidered.
The only difference in the dress of the sisters was in their ornaments.
Aimee wore heavy ear-drops, and a large necklace and bracelets of
amethyst; while Genifrede wore, suspended from a throat-band of velvet,
embroidered like that which bound her waist, a massive plain gold
crucifix, lately given her by Moyse.  Her ear-rings were hoops of plain
gold, and her bracelets again of embroidered velvet, clasped with plain
gold.  In her might be seen, and in her was seen by the Europeans who
attended the levee of that day, what the negro face and form may be when
seen in their native climate, unhardened by degradation, undebased by
ignorance, unspoiled by oppression--all peculiarities of feature
softened under the refining influence of mind, and all peculiarities of
expression called out in their beauty by the free exercise of natural
affections.  The animated sweetness of the negro countenance is known
only to those who have seen it thus.

Paul was of the party, looking very well in the French uniform, which he
wore in honour of his brother on great occasions, though he was far from
having grown warlike on his change of fortune.  His heart was still in
his cottage, or on the sea; and now, as he stood leaning against a
pillar of the piazza, his eye was more busy in watching the
fishing-boats in the bay than in observing what went on within the
house.  The only thing he liked about state-days was the hours of
idleness they afforded--such hours as this, when, lounging in the shade,
he could see Moyse happy at the feet of his beloved, and enjoy the soft
wind as it breathed past, laden with spicy scents.  During such an hour,
he almost forgot the restraints of his uniform and of his rank.

There was yet another person in the piazza.  Seated on its step, but
sheltered by its broad eaves, sat Therese--more beautiful by far than
Genifrede--more beautiful by far than in her days of girlhood--
celebrated as she had then been throughout the colony.  Her girlishness
was gone, except its grace; her sensitiveness was gone, and (as those
might think who did not watch the changes of her eye) much of her
animation.  Her carriage was majestic, her countenance, calm, and its
beauty, now refined by a life of leisure and the consciousness of rank--
leisure and rank both well employed--more imposing than ever.  Her
husband was now a general in Toussaint's army.  When he was in the
field, Madame Dessalines remained at home, on their estate near Saint
Marc.  When he was in attendance on the Commander-in-chief, she was ever
a welcome guest in Toussaint's family.  Madame L'Ouverture loved her as
a daughter; and she had endeared herself to the girls.  At this time,
from an accidental circumstance, she was at the palace without her
husband.  It was evident that she felt quite at home there; for, though
she had arrived only a few hours before, she did not appear disposed to
converse.  As she sat alone, leaning against the base of the pillar, she
now and then cast her eyes on the book she held open in her hand, but
for the most part looked abroad upon the terraced town, the bay, or the
shadowy clefts of the rocky island which closed it in.

The sound of feet and of voices from within increased from moment to
moment.  The Commander-in-chief had assumed his place, with his aides on
either hand; and presently the room was so nearly filled as to leave no
more space than was required for the deputations to pass in at one
entrance on the south of the apartment, appear before the General, and
pass out at the other door.  Toussaint stood at the centre of the north
end, beside a table partly covered with papers, and at which sat his
secretary.  On this table lay his cocked hat.  His uniform was blue,
with scarlet capo and cuffs, richly embroidered.  He had white trousers,
long Hessian boots, and, as usual, the Madras handkerchief on his head.
While walking up the apartment, he had been conversing on business with
his officers, and continued to do so, without the loss of a moment,
till, on his taking his place, two ushers came up with an account of the
parties waiting for admittance, desiring to know his pleasure as to who
should have precedence.

"The clergy," said Toussaint; "the first in duty must be first in
honour."

In a few moments there was a loud announcement of the clergy from the
districts of Saint Marc, Leogane, Mirbalais, and so on, through a long
enumeration of districts.  The priests entered, two and two, a long
procession of black gowns.  As they collected into a group before him,
every one anxiously making way for them, Toussaint crossed his arms upon
his breast, and bowed his head low for many moments.  When he looked up
again, an expression of true reverence was upon his countenance; and, in
a tone of earnestness, he asked for what service they desired to command
him.

Father Antioche, an old priest, assisted by a brother at least thirty
years younger, offered sealed papers, which, he said, contained reports
from the several districts concerning the religious and moral condition
of the inhabitants.  Toussaint received them, and laid them, with his
own hand, upon the table beside him, saying, with much solicitude--

"Do I see rightly in your countenances that you bring good news of your
flocks, my fathers!"

"It is so," replied the old priest.  "Our wishes are fast fulfilling."

"Eight thousand marriages have been celebrated, as will appear in our
reports," added the young priest.

"And in the difficult cases of a plurality of wives," resumed Father
Antioche, "there is generally a willingness in the cultivators to
maintain liberally those who are put away."

"And the children?"

"The children may be found in the schools, sitting side by side in
peace.  The quarrels of the children of different mothers (quarrels
often fatal in the fields) disappear in the schools.  The reports well
exhibit the history of our expanding system."

"God be thanked!"  Toussaint uttered in a low voice.

"Under the religions rule of your excellency," said the young priest,
"enforced by so pure an example of piety, the morals of this colony will
be established, and the salvation of its people secured."

"You," said Toussaint, "the servants of Christ, are the true rulers of
this island and its inhabitants.  I am your servant in guarding external
order, during a period which you will employ in establishing your flocks
in the everlasting wisdom and peace of religion.  I hold the inferior
office of keeping our enemies in awe, and enabling our people to find
subsistence and comfort.  My charge is the soil on which, and the bodies
in which, men live.  You have in charge their souls, in which lies the
future of this world and of the next.  You are the true rulers of Saint
Domingo; and we bow to you as such."

Every head was immediately bowed, and the priests went out, amidst the
obeisances of the whole assemblage--some of the order wondering,
perhaps, whether every mind there was as sincere in its homage as that
of the Commander-in-chief.

The superintendents of the cultivators came next--negroes dressed in
check shirts, white linen jackets and trousers, and with the usual
Madras handkerchief on the head.  They, too, handed in reports; and to
them also did Toussaint address his questions, with an air of respect
almost equal to that with which he had spoken to the priests.

"I grieve," said he, "that you cannot yet fulfil your function
altogether in peace.  My generals and I have done what we can to
preserve our fields from devastation, and our cultivators from the
dangers and the fears of ambushed foes; but Rigaud's forces are not yet
subdued; and for a while we must impose upon our cultivators the toil of
working armed in the field.  We are soldiers here," he added, looking
round upon his officers, "but I hope there is not one of us who does not
honour the hoe more than the gun.  How far have you been able to repair
in the south-eastern districts the interruption in the September
planting?"

The superintendent of those districts came forward, and said that some
planting had been effected in November, the sprouts of which now looked
well.  More planting had been done during the early part of the present
month; and time would show the result.

"Good!" said Toussaint.  "Some of the finest crops I have seen have
risen from January plants, though it were best it were done in
September.  How do you report about the rats?"

"The nuisance is still great," replied the head superintendent; "their
uninterrupted possession of the fields during the troubles has made them
very powerful.  Would that your excellency were as powerful to conquer
the rats as the mulattoes!"

"We have allies," said Toussaint, gravely--"an army more powerful than
that which I command.  Where are the ants!"

"They have closed their campaign.  They cleared the fields for us in the
autumn; but they have disappeared."

"For a time only.  While there are rats, they will reappear."

"And when there are no more rats, we must call in some force, if your
excellency knows of such, to make war upon the an Is; for they are only
a less evil than that which they cure."

"If they were absent, you would find some worse evil in their stead--
pestilence, perhaps.  Teach your children this, if you hear them
complain of anything to which Providence has given life and an errand
among us.  The cocoa walks at Plaisance--are they fenced to the north?"

"Completely.  The new wood has sprung up from the ashes of the fires,
like a mist from the lake."

"Are the cottages enlarged and divided, as I recommended?"

"Universally.  Every cottage inhabited by a family has now two rooms, at
least.  As your excellency also desired, the cultivators have spent
their leisure hours in preparing furniture--from bedsteads to baskets.
As the reports will explain, there are some inventions which it is hoped
will be inspected by your excellency--particularly a ventilator, to be
fixed in the roofs of cottages; a broad shoe for walking over the salt
marshes; and--"

"The cooler," prompted a voice from behind.

"And a new kind of cooler, which preserves liquids, and even meats, for
a longer time than any previously known to the richest planter in the
island.  This discovery does great credit to the sagacity of the
labourer who has completed it."

"I will come and view it.  I hope to visit all our cultivators--to
verify your reports with my own eyes.  At present, we are compelled,
like the Romans, to go from arms to the plough, and from the plough to
arms; but, when possible, I wish to show that I am not a negro of the
coast, with my eye ever abroad upon the sea, or on foreign lands.  I
desire that we should make use of our own means for our own welfare.
Everything that is good shall be welcomed from abroad as it arrives; but
the liberty of the blacks can be secured only by the prosperity of their
agriculture."

"I do not see why not by fisheries," observed Paul, to the party in the
piazza, as he caught his brother's words.  "If Toussaint is not fond of
fish, he should remember that other people are."

"He means," said Therese, "that toil, peaceful toil, with its hope, and
its due fruit, is best for the blacks.  Now, you know, Paul L'Ouverture,
that if the fields of the ocean had required as much labour as those of
the plain, you would never have been a fisherman."

"It is pleasanter on a hot day to dive than to dig; and easier to draw
the net for an hour than to cut canes for a day--is it not, uncle?"
asked Aimee.

"If the Commander-in-chief thinks toil good for us," said Moyse, "why
does he disparage war?  Who knows better than he what are the fatigues
of a march? and the wearisomeness of an ambush is greater still.  Why
does he, of all men, disparage war?"

"Because," said Madame, "he thinks there has been enough hatred and
fighting.  I have to put him in mind of his own glory in war, or he
would be always forgetting it--except, indeed, when any one comes from
Europe.  When he hears of Bonaparte, he smiles; and I know he is then
glad that he is a soldier too."

"Besides his thinking that there has been too much fighting," said
Aimee, "he wishes that the people should labour joyfully in the very
places where they used to toil in wretchedness for the whites."

Therese turned to listen, with fire in her eyes.

"In order," continued Aimee, "that they may lose the sense of that
misery, and become friendly towards the whites."

Therese turned away again, languidly.

"There are whites now entering," said Paul; "not foreigners, are they?"

"No," said Madame.  "Surely they are Creoles; yes, there is Monsieur
Caze, and Monsieur Hugonin, and Monsieur Charrier.  I think these
gentlemen have all been reinstated in their properties since the last
levee.  Hear what they say."

"We come," exclaimed aloud Monsieur Caze, the spokesman of the party of
white planters; "we come, overwhelmed with amazement, penetrated with
gratitude, to lay our thanks at your feet.  All was lost.  The estates
on which we were born, the lands bequeathed to us by our fathers, were
wrenched from our hands, ravaged, destroyed.  We and our families fled--
some to the mountains--some to the woods--and many to foreign lands.
Your voice reached us, inviting us to our homes.  We trusted that voice;
we find our lands restored to us, our homes secure, and the passions of
war stilled, like this atmosphere after the storms of December.  And to
you do we owe all--to you, possessed by a magnanimity of which we had
not dared to dream!"

"These passions of war, of which you speak," said Toussaint, "need never
have raged, if God had permitted the whites to dream what was in the
souls of the blacks.  Let the past now be forgotten.  I have restored
your estates because they were yours; but I also perceive advantages in
your restoration.  By circumstances--not by nature, but by
circumstances--the whites have been able to acquire a wide intelligence,
a depth of knowledge, from which the blacks have been debarred.  I
desire for the blacks a perpetual and friendly intercourse with those
who are their superiors in education.  As residents, therefore, you are
welcome; and your security and welfare shall be my care.  You find your
estates peopled with cultivators?"

"We do."

"And you understand the terms on which the labour of your
fellow-citizens may be hired?  You have only to secure to them
one-fourth of the produce, and you will, I believe, be well served.  If
you experience cause of complaint, your remedy will be found in an
appeal to the superintendent of cultivators of the district, or to
myself.  Over the cultivators no one else, I now intimate to you, has
authority."

The gentlemen bowed, having nothing to say on this head.

"It may be in your power," continued Toussaint, after applying to his
secretary for a paper from the mass on the table--"it may be in your
power to do a service to the colony, and to individuals mentioned in
this paper, by affording information as to where they are to be found,
if alive; which of them are dead; and which of the dead have left heirs.
Many estates remain unclaimed.  The list is about to be circulated in
the colony, in France, and in the United States.  If you should chance
to be in correspondence with any of the owners or their heirs, make it
known to them from me that they will be welcome here, as you are.  In
the mean time we are taking the best care in empower of their estates.
They must rebuild such of their houses as have been destroyed; but their
lands are cultivated under a commission, a part of the produce being
assigned to the cultivators, the rest to the public treasury."

Toussaint read the list, watching, as did every one present, the
countenances of the Creoles as each name was pronounced.  They had
information to offer respecting one or two only; to the rest they gave
sighs or mournful shakes of the head.

"It is afflicting to us all," said Toussaint, "to think of the slaughter
and exile of those who drank wine together in the white mansions of
yonder plain.  But a wiser cheerfulness is henceforth to spread its
sunshine over our land, with no tempest brewing in its heats."

"Have we heard the whole list?" asked Monsieur Charrier, anxiously.

"All except three, whose owners or agents have been already summoned.
These three are, the Athens estate, Monsieur Dank; the Breda estate, the
attorney of which, Monsieur Bayou--"

"Is here!" cried a voice from the lower part of the room.  "I landed
just now," exclaimed Bayou, hastening with extended arms to embrace
Toussaint; "and I lose not a moment--"

"Gently, sir," said the Commander-in-chief, drawing back two steps.
"There is now a greater distance between me and you than there, once was
between you and me.  There can be no familiarity with the chief of a
newly-redeemed race."

Monsieur Bayou fell back, looking in every face around him, to see what
was thought of this.  Every face was grave.

"I sent for you," resumed Toussaint, in a mild voice, "to put you at the
head of the interests of the good old masters;--for the good alone have
been able to return.  Show us what can be done with the Breda estate,
with free labourers.  Make the blacks work well.  Be not only just, but
firm.  You were formerly too mild a master.  Make the blacks work well,
that, by the welfare of your small interests, you may add to the general
prosperity of the administration of the Commander-in-chief of Saint
Domingo."

Monsieur Bayou had no words ready.  He stared round him upon the black
officers in their splendid uniforms, upon the trains of liveried
servants, handing coffee and fruits and sangaree on trays and salvers of
massive silver, and on the throng of visitors who crowded upon one
another's heels, all anxious, not merely to pay their respects, but to
offer their enthusiastic homage at the feet of his former slave.  His
eye at length fixed upon the windows, through which he saw something of
the outline of the group of ladies.

"You desire to greet Madame L'Ouverture?" said Toussaint, kindly.  "You
shall be conducted to her."  And one of the aides stepped forward to
perform the office of introducer.

Monsieur Bayou pulled from his pocket, on his way to the window, a
shagreen jewel-case; and, by the time he was in front of Madame he had
taken from it a rich gold chain, which he hung on her neck, saying, with
a voice and air strangely made up of jocoseness, awkwardness, and
deference--

"I have not forgotten, you see, though I suppose you have, what you gave
me, one day long ago.  I tried to bring back something prettier than I
carried away--something for each of you--but--I don't know--I find
everything here so different from what I had any idea of--so very
strange--that I am afraid you will despise my little presents."

While speaking, he shyly held out little parcels to Genifrede and Aimee,
who received them graciously, while their mother replied--

"In those old days, Monsieur Bayou, we had nothing really our own to
give; and you deserved from us any aid that was in our power.  My
daughters and I now accept with pleasure the tokens of friendship that
you bring.  I hope no changes have taken place which need prevent our
being friends, Monsieur Bayou."

He scarcely heard her.

"Is it possible," cried he, "that these can be your girls?  Aimee I
might have known--but can this lady be Genifrede?"

Genifrede looked up with a smile, which perplexed him still further.

"I do not know that I ever saw a smile from her before; and she would
not so much as lift up her head at one of my jokes.  One could never
gain her attention with anything but a ghost story.  But I see how it
is," he added, stooping, and speaking low to her mother, while he
glanced at Moyse--"she has learned at last the old song that she would
not listen to when I wanted to tell her fortune:--

  "`Your heart's your own this summer day;
  To-morrow 'twill be changed away.'

"And Aimee--is she married?"

"Aimee is a widow--at least, so we call her," said her mother, smiling.
"Isaac (you remember Placide and Isaac)--her brother Isaac is all the
world to her; and he is far away."

Aimee's eyes were full of tears in a moment; but she looked happy, as
she always did when Isaac was spoken of as her own peculiar friend.

"I was going to ask about your boys," said Bayou.  "The little fellow
who used to ride the horses to water, almost before he could walk
alone--he and his brothers, where are they?"

"Denis is with his tutor, in the palace here.  Placide and Isaac are at
Paris."

"At Paris!  For education?"

"Partly so."

"And partly," interposed Paul, "for an object in which you, sir, have an
interest, and respecting which you ought, therefore, to be informed.
There are those who represent my brother's actions as the result of
personal ambition.  Such persons have perpetually accused him to the
French Government as desiring to sever the connection between the two
races, and therefore between this colony and France.  At the moment when
these charges were most strongly urged, and most nearly believed, my
brother sent his two elder sons to Paris, to be educated for their
future duties under the care of the Directory.  I hope, sir, you see in
this act a guarantee for the safety and honour of the whites in Saint
Domingo."

"Certainly, certainly.  All very right--very satisfactory."

"Everybody who understands, thinks all that the Commander-in-chief does
quite right," said Madame, with so much of her old tone and manner as
made Bayou ready to laugh.  He turned to Paul, saying--

"May I ask if you are the brother who used to reside on the northern
coast--if I remember right?"

"I am.  I am Paul--Paul L'Ouverture."  He sighed as he added, "I do not
live on the northern coast now.  I am going to live on the southern
coast--in a palace, instead of my old hut."

"Monsieur Bayou will see--Monsieur Bayou will hear," interrupted Madame,
"if he will stay out the levee.  You will not leave us to-day, Monsieur
Bayou?"

Monsieur Bayou bowed.  He then asked if he had the pleasure of any
acquaintance with the other lady, who had not once turned round since he
arrived.  Therese had indeed sat with her face concealed for some time
past.

"Do not ask her," said Aimee, eagerly, in a low voice.  "We do not speak
to her of old times.  She is Madame Dessalines."

"The lady of General Dessalines," said Madame.  "Shall I introduce you?"

She called to Therese.  Therese just turned round to notice the
introduction, when her attention was called another way by two officers,
who brought her some message from Toussaint.  That one glance perplexed
Monsieur Bayou as much as anything he had seen.  That beautiful face and
form were not new to him; but he had only a confused impression as to
where and when he had seen them.  He perceived, however, that he was not
to ask.  He followed her with his eyes as she rose from her low seat,
and placed herself close by one of the open jalousies, so as to hear
what passed within.

"It is the English deputation," said Paul.  "Hear what my brother will
say."

"What will become of them?" said Madame.  "I do not know what would
become of me if my husband were ever as angry with me as I know he is
with them."

There were indeed signs of wrath in the countenance which was commonly
gentle as the twilight.  The rigid uprightness of his figure, the fiery
eye, the distended nostril, all showed that Toussaint was struggling
with anger.  Before him stood a group of Englishmen--a sailor holding a
wand, on which was fixed a small white banner, two gentlemen in plain
clothes, the captain of the frigate which rode in the bay, and a colonel
of the English troops in Jamaica.

"It is all very well, gentlemen," Toussaint was saying--"it is all very
well as regards the treaty.  Twenty-four hours ago we should have had no
difficulty in concluding it.  But what have you to say to this treatment
of women on board the schooner you captured?  What have you to say to
your act of taking all the gentlemen out of your prize (except one who
would not quit his sister), leaving the ladies in charge of a brutal
prize-master, who was drunk--was it not so?" he added, turning to one of
his officers.

"It was: he was drunk, and refused the ladies access to their trunks of
clothes, denied them the wine left for their use, and alarmed them
extremely by his language.  These ladies were wives of our most
distinguished officers."

"It matters not whose wives they were," said Toussaint: "they were
women; and I will treat with none who thus show themselves not to be
men."

"We do not ask you to treat with my prize-master," said Captain
Reynolds.  "If it be true--"

"It is true," said a voice from the window, to which all listened in a
moment.  "My maid and I were on board that schooner; from which we
landed four hours ago.  It is true that we were confined to the cabin,
denied the refreshments that were before our eyes, and the use of our
own clothes; and it is true that the oaths and threats of a drunken man
were in our ears all night.  When morning came, we looked out to see if
we were really in the seas of Saint Domingo.  It seemed as if we had
been conveyed where the whites are still paramount."  And Therese
indignantly walked away.

"You hear!" said Toussaint.  "And you ask me to trade with Jamaica!
While permitted to obtain provisions from our coast, you have captured a
French schooner and a sloop in our seas; you have insulted our women;
and now you propose a treaty!  If it were not for that banner, you would
have to treat for mercy."

"When shall I be permitted to speak?" asked Captain Reynolds.

"Now."

"The blame is mine.  I appointed a prize-master, who, it now appears,
was not trustworthy.  I was not aware of this; and I left in the cabin,
for the use of the ladies, all their own property, two cases of wine,
and such fruits as I could obtain for them.  I lament to find that my
confidence was misplaced; and I pledge myself that the prize-master
shall be punished.  After offering my apologies to the offended ladies,
I will retire to my ship, leaving this business of the treaty to appear
as unconnected as it really is with this mischance.  Allow me to be
conducted to the presence of the ladies."

"I will charge myself with your apologies," said Toussaint, who knew
that any white stood a small chance of a good reception from Therese.
"I accept your acknowledgment of error, Captain Reynolds, and shall be
ready to proceed with the treaty, on proof of the punishment of the
prize-master.  Gentlemen, I regard this treaty with satisfaction, and am
willing to enclose this small tract of peace in the midst of the dreary
wilderness of war.  I am willing to see trade established between
Jamaica and Saint Domingo.  There are days when your blue mountains are
seen from our shores.  Let to-morrow be a bright day when no cloud shall
hide us from one another's friendship."

"To-morrow," the deputation from Jamaica agreed, as they bowed
themselves out of the presence of the Commander-in-chief.

"More English! more English!" was whispered round, when the name of
Gauthier was announced.

"No; not English," observed some, on seeing that the five who now
entered, though in the English uniform, were mulattoes.

"Not English," said Toussaint, aloud.  "English soldiers are honourable,
whether as friends or foes.  When we meet with the spying eye, and the
bribing hand, we do not believe them to be English.  Such are the eyes
and hands of these men.  They have the audacity to present themselves as
guests, when their own hearts should tell them they are prisoners."

"Prisoners!" exclaimed Gauthier and his companions.

"Yes, surely--prisoners.  Your conduct has already been judged by a
military commission, and you are sentenced.  If you have more to say
than you had to plead to me, say it when I have read."

Toussaint took from among the papers on the table a letter brought, as
Gauthier alleged, from the English commander, Sir Thomas Brisbane,
declaring Gauthier empowered to treat for the delivery to the British of
the posts of Gonaives, Les Verrettes, and some others, in order to
secure to the British the freedom of the windward passage.  Toussaint
declared that the messengers had brought with them bags of money, with
which they had endeavoured to bribe him to this treachery.  He asked of
them if this were not true.

"It is," said Gauthier; "but we and our authorities acted upon the
precedent of your former conduct."

"What former conduct?  Did those hands ever receive gold from the
coffers of an enemy?  Speak freely.  You shall not suffer from anything
you may say here."

"You have been the means by which posts have been delivered to an enemy.
We remember hearing of the surrender of Marmalade, Gros Morne, and some
others."

"I was the means, as you say; but it was done by a wiser will and a
stronger hand than mine.  In that transaction my heart was pure.  My
design was to lose rank, and to return to poverty by the step I took.
You ought to have inquired into facts, clearly understood by all who
know me, before you proceeded to insult me.  Have you more to say?"

"It was natural that we should believe that he through whom posts had
been delivered would deliver posts again; and this was confirmed by
rumours, and I believe, even by letters which seemed to come from
yourself, in relation to the posts now in question."

Gauthier appealed to his companions, who all assented.

"There are other rumours concerning me," said Toussaint, "which could
not be perverted; and to these you should have listened.  My actions are
messages addressed to the whole world--letters which cannot be forged;
and these alone you should have trusted.  Such misunderstanding as yours
could hardly have been foreseen; but it will be my fault, if it be
repeated.  The name of the First of the Blacks must never again be
associated with bribery.  You are sentenced by a military commission,
before which your documents have been examined, to run the gauntlet.
The sentence will immediately be executed in the Place d'Armes."

"Are you aware," cried Gauthier, "that I was second in command at Saint
Marc when it was in the possession of the British?"

"I am aware of it."

"This is enmity to our colour," said another.  "To our being mulattoes
we owe our disgrace."

"I have beloved friends of your colour," said Toussaint.  "Believe me,
however, the complexion of your souls is so disgusting that I have no
attention to spare for your faces.  You must now depart."

"Change our punishment!" said Gauthier.  "Consider that I am an emigrant
officer.  Some other punishment!"

"No other," said Toussaint.  "This is the fit punishment--mean as your
design--ridiculous as your attempt.  Are the French Commissaries in
waiting, Laroche?  Let them be announced."

The prisoners were removed by one door, while the imposing party from
France entered by the other.

Commissary Hedouville, who had been for some time resident at Cap
Francais, entered, followed by a party of his countrymen, just arrived
from Paris.  There was among them one, at sight of whom Toussaint's
countenance changed, while an exclamation was heard from the piazza,
which showed that his family were moved like himself.  The person who
excited this emotion was a young black officer, who entered smiling, and
as if scarcely able to keep his place behind the Commissary, and General
Michel, the head of the new deputation.

The Commander-in-chief quitted his station, and advanced some steps,
seizing the officer's hand, and asking eagerly--

"Vincent!  Why here?  My boys--how, where are they?"

"They are well: both well and happy in our beloved Paris.  I am here
with General Michel; sent by the government, with gifts and compliments,
which--"

"Which we will speak of when I have offered my welcome to these
representatives of the government we all obey," said Toussaint, turning
to the Commissary and the General, and remembering that his emotions as
a father had caused him, for the moment, to lose sight of the business
of the hour.  He made himself the usher of the French Commissaries to
the sofa, in front of which he had himself been standing.  There he
would have seated Hedouville and General Michel.  Hedouville threw
himself down willingly enough; but the newly arrived messenger chose to
stand.

"I come," said he, "the bearer to you of honours from the Republic,
which I delight to present as the humblest of your servants.--Not a word
of apology for your graceful action of welcome to Brigadier-General
Vincent!  What so graceful as the emotions of a parent's heart?  I
understand--I am aware--he went out as the guardian of your sons; and
your first welcome was, therefore, due to him.  The office of guardian
of your sons is, ought to be, in your eyes, more important, more sacred,
than that of Commissary, or any other.  If our national Deliverer--if
the conqueror of Italy--if our First Consul himself were here, he ought
to step back while you embrace the guardian of your sons."

The party in the piazza saw and heard all.

"If," said Madame, in a whisper to Genifrede, "if these honours that
they speak of come from Bonaparte--if he has answered your father's
letter, your father will think his happiness complete--now we know that
the boys are well."

"The First Consul has written, or will write, no doubt," said Aimee.
"It must be pleasant to him as to my father, to greet a brother in
destiny and in glory.  Surely General Vincent will come and speak to us;
will tell us of my brothers!  He looked this way just now."

"The First Consul will not write," said Moyse.  "He is a white; and
therefore, though a brother in destiny and in glory, he will not notice
the Commander-in-chief of Saint Domingo."

"You are right, Moyse," said Madame Dessalines.  "And it is best so."

"But that will disappoint my husband very much," said Madame.  "He likes
the whites better than you do."

"He does," said Therese.  "But let us listen."

Hedouville was at the moment exerting himself to introduce his
secretary, Monsieur Pascal.

"An honoured name," observed Toussaint.

"And not only in name, but by blood connected with the great man you
refer to," said Hedouville.

"None are more welcome here," said Toussaint, "than those who bring with
them the honours of piety, of reason, and of science."  And he looked
with deep interest upon the countenance of the secretary, which did in
truth show signs of that thoughtfulness and sagacity, though not of the
morbid suffering, which is associated in all minds with the image of the
author of the Provinciales.  Monsieur Pascal returned the gaze which was
fixed upon him with one in which intense curiosity was mingled with
doubt, if not fear.  His countenance immediately, however, relaxed into
an expression of pleased surprise.  During this brief moment, these two
men, so unlike--the elderly, toil-worn negro, and the young, studious
Frenchman--felt that they were friends.

Monsieur Pascal stepped aside to make way for Monsieur Moliere.

"Are we to welcome in you," asked Toussaint, "a messenger of mirth to
our society?"

The group of Frenchmen could scarcely restrain their laughter at this
question.  Monsieur Moliere had a most lugubrious countenance--a thing
not always inconsistent with a merry humour: but Monsieur Moliere's
heart was believed never to have laughed, any more than his face.  He
answered, as if announcing a misfortune, that he claimed no connection
with the dramatist, though he believed some of his family had attempted
to do so.

"Monsieur Moliere discharges the duty of a pious descendant, however,"
said Vincent.  "He laughs himself into such a state of exhaustion every
night over those immortal comedies, that he has to be carried to bed.
That is the reason we see him so grave in the morning."

"Think of Monsieur Moliere as a trusted secretary of the messenger from
the republic to yourself," said General Michel.

"I come," said Michel, assuming a pompous tone, "I come associated with
an officer of the republican army, Monsieur Petion--a native of this
colony, but a stranger to yourself."

Monsieur Petion paid his respects.  He was a mulatto, with shy and
reserved manners, and an exceedingly intellectual countenance.

"We lost you early," said Toussaint; "but only to offer you the warmer
welcome back.  It was, as I remember, to attend the military schools of
France that you left your home.  Such scholars are welcome here."

"And particularly," observed Michel, "when they have also had the
fortune to serve in the army of Italy, and immediately under the eye of
the First Consul himself."

"Is it so?  Is it really so?" exclaimed Toussaint.  "I can never hear
enough of the ruler of France.  Tell us--but that must be hereafter.  Do
you come to me from him?"

"From the government generally," replied Petion.

An expression of disappointment, very evident to his watchful wife,
passed over the face of Toussaint.

"There is no letter," she whispered to Genifrede.

"We bring you from the government," said Michel, "a confirmation of the
dignity of Commander-in-chief of this colony, conferred by Commissary
Santhonax."

Toussaint bowed, but smiled not.

"See, he sighs!" said Madame, sighing in echo.

"These are empty words," said Therese.  "They give him only what they
cannot withhold; and at the very moment they surround him with spies."

"He says," replied Madame, "that Hedouville is sent here `to restrain
his ambition.'  Those were the words spoken of him at Paris, where they
will not believe that he has no selfish ambition."

"They will not believe, because they cannot understand.  Their
Commander-in-chief has a selfish ambition; and they cannot imagine that
ours may be a man of a higher sold.  But we cannot help it: they are
whites."

"What a dress--what a beautiful dress!" exclaimed Madame, who almost
condescended to stand fairly in the window, to see the presents now
displayed before her husband by the commissary's servants.

"These presents," pursued General Michel, while Petion stood aloof, as
if he had no concern in the business--"this dress of embroidered velvet,
and this set of arms, I am to present to you, in the name of the late
Directory of France, in token of their admiration of your services to
the colony."

Toussaint stretched out his hand for the sword, which he immediately
assumed instead of the one he wore, observing that this sword, like that
which he had now laid aside, should be employed in loyal service to the
republic.  As he took no notice of the embroidered dress, it was
conveyed away.

"Not only in the hall of government," resumed Michel--"but throughout
all Europe, is your name ringing to the skies.  A eulogium has been
delivered at the Council of Ancients--"

"And an oration before the governors of the Military Schools," added
Hedouville.

"And from Paris," said Pascal, "your reputation has spread along the
shores of the Rhine, and as far north as Saint Petersburg; and in the
south, even to Rome."

Toussaint's ear caught a low laugh of delight from the piazza, which he
thought fit alone for a husband's ear, and therefore hoped that no one
else had heard.

"Enough, gentlemen," he said.  "Measuring together my deeds and this
applause, I understand the truth.  This applause is in fact given to the
powers of the negro race; and not to myself as a soldier or a man.  It
belongs not, therefore, to me.  For my personal support, one line of a
letter, one word of message, from the chief of our common country, would
be worth the applause of Europe, of which you speak."

Monsieur Petion produced a sealed packet, which he delivered; and this
seemed to remind General Vincent that he had one too.  Toussaint was
unable to refrain from tearing open first one, and then the other, in
the intense hope of receiving some acknowledgment, some greeting from
the "brother in destiny and in glory," who was the idol of his loyal
heart.  There was no word from Bonaparte among the first papers; and it
was scarcely possible that there should be in the other packet; yet he
could not keep his eye from it.  Other eyes were watching from behind
the jalousies.  He cast a glance, a half smile that way; the consequence
of which was that Aimee, forgetting the time, the deputation, the
officers, the whole crowd, sprang into the room, and received the letter
from Isaac, which was the only thing in all that room that she saw.  She
disappeared in another moment, followed, however, by General Vincent.

The father's smile died away from the face of Toussaint, and his brow
darkened, as he caught at a glance the contents of the proclamations
contained in Petion's packet.  A glance was enough.  Before the eyes of
the company had returned from the window, whither they had followed the
apparition of Aimee, he had folded up the papers.  His secretary's hand
was ready to receive them: but Toussaint put them into his bosom.

"Those proclamations," said Hedouville, rising from the sofa, and
standing by Toussaint's side, "you will immediately publish.  You will
immediately exhibit on your colours the words imposed, `Brave blacks,
remember that the French people alone recognise your freedom, and the
legality of your rights!'"

As the commissary spoke these, words aloud, he looked round upon the
assembled blacks, who, in their turn, all fixed their eyes upon their
chief.  Toussaint merely replied that he would give his best attention
to all communications from the government of France.

"In order," said Hedouville, as if in explanation of a friend's
purposes, "in order to yield implicit obedience to its commands."  Then
resuming his seat, he observed to Toussaint, "I believe General Michel
desires some little explanation of certain circumstances attending his
landing at Cap."

"I do," said General Michel, resuming his solemn air.  "You are aware
that General Vincent and I were arrested on landing?"

"I am aware of it.  It was by my instant command that you were set
free."

"By whose command, or by what error, then, were we arrested?"

"I hoped that full satisfaction had been afforded you by Monsieur
Raymond, the Governor of Cap Francais.  Did he not explain to you that
it was by an impulse of the irritated blacks--an impulse of which they
repent, and to which they will not again yield, proceeding from anger
for which there is but too much cause?  As you, however, are not to be
made responsible for the faults of your government towards us, the
offending parties have been amply punished."

"I," said Hedouville, from the sofa behind, "I am held responsible for
the faults of our government towards you.  What are they?"

"We will discuss them at Cap," replied Toussaint.  "There you will be
surrounded by troops of your own colour; and you will feel more at
liberty to open your whole mind to me than, it grieves me to perceive,
you are when surrounded by blacks.  When you know the blacks better, you
will become aware that the highest security is found in fully trusting
them."

"What is it that you suppose we fear from the blacks?"

"When we are at Cap, I will ask you what it was that you feared,
Monsieur Hedouville, when you chose to land at Saint Domingo, instead of
at Cap--when you showed your mistrust of your fellow-citizens by
selecting the Spanish city for your point of entrance upon our island.
I will then ask you what it is that your government fears, that it
commits the interests of the blacks to a new legislature, which
understands neither their temper nor their affairs."

"This was, perhaps, the cause of the difficulty we met with at Cap,"
observed General Michel.

"It is the chief cause.  Some jealousy on this account is not to be
wondered at; but it has not the less been punished.  I would further
ask," he continued, turning again to Hedouville, "what the First Consul
fears, that--"

"Who ever heard of the First Consul fearing anything?" cried Hedouville,
with a smile.

"Hear it now, then."

"In this place?" said Hedouville, looking round.  "In public?"

"In this place--among the most loyal of the citizens of France," replied
Toussaint, casting a proud look round upon his officers and assembled
friends.  "If I were about to make complaints of the First Consul, I
would close my doors upon you and myself, and speak in whispers.  But it
is known that I honour him, and hold him to my heart, as a brother in
destiny and in glory: though his glory is now at its height, while mine
will not be so till my race is redeemed from the consequences of
slavery, as well as from slavery itself.  Still, we are brothers; and I
therefore mourn his fears, shown in the documents that he sends to my
soldiers, and shown no less in his sending none to me."

"I bring you from him the confirmation of your dignity," observed
General Michel.

"You do so by message.  The honour is received through the ear.  But
that which should plant it down into my heart--the greeting from a
brother--is wanting.  It cannot be that the First of the Whites has not
time, has not attention, for the First of the Blacks.  It is that he
fears--not for himself, but for our country: he fears our ambition, our
revenge.  He shall experience, however, that we are loyal--from myself,
his brother, to the mountain child who startles the vulture from the
rocks with his shouts of Bonaparte the Great.  To engage our loyalty
before many witnesses," he continued, once more looking round upon the
assemblage, "I send this message through you, in return for that which I
have received.  Tell the First Consul that, in the absence of
interference with the existing laws of the colony, I guarantee, under my
personal responsibility, the submission to order, and the devotion to
France, of my black brethren.  Mark the condition, gentlemen, which you
will pronounce reasonable.  Mark the condition, and you will find happy
results.  You will soon see whether I pledge in vain my own
responsibility and your hopes."

Even while he spoke, in all the fervour of unquestionable sincerity, of
his devotion to France, his French hearers fell that he was virtually a
monarch.  The First of the Blacks was not only supreme in this palace,
and throughout the colony; he had entered upon an immortal reign over
all lands trodden by the children of Africa.  To the contracted gaze of
the diplomatists present, all might not be visible--the coming ages when
the now prophetic name of L'Ouverture should have become a bright fact
in the history of man, and should be breathed in thanksgiving under the
palm-tree, sung in exultation in the cities of Africa, and embalmed in
the liberties of the Isles of the West:--such a sovereignty as this was
too vast and too distant for the conceptions of Michel and Hedouville to
embrace; but they were impressed with a sense of his power, with a
feeling of the majesty of his influence; and the reverential emotions
which they would fain have shaken off, and which they were afterwards
ashamed of, were at the present moment enhanced by sounds which reached
them from the avenue.  There was military music, the firing of salutes,
the murmur of a multitude of voices, and the tramp of horses and of men.

Toussaint courteously invited the commissaries to witness the
presentation to him, for the interests of France, of the keys of the
cities of the island, late in the possession of Spain, and now ceded to
France by the treaty of Bale.  The commissaries could not refuse, and
took their stand on one side of the First of the Blacks, while Paul
L'Ouverture assumed the place of honour on the other hand.

The apartment was completely filled by the heads of the procession--the
late Governor of the city of Saint Domingo, his officers, the magistracy
of the city, and the heads of the clergy.

Among these last was a face which Toussaint recognised with strong
emotion.  The look which he cast upon Laxabon, the gesture of greeting
which he offered, caused Don Alonzo Dovaro to turn round to discover
whose presence there could be more imposing to the Commander-in-chief
than his own.  The flushed countenance of the priest marked him out as
the man.

Don Alonzo Dovaro ordered the keys to be brought, and addressed himself
in Spanish to Toussaint.  Toussaint did not understand Spanish, and knew
that the Spaniard, could speak French.  The Spaniard, however, chose to
deliver up a Spanish city in no other language than that of his nation.
Father Laxabon stepped forward eagerly, with an offer to be interpreter.
It was an opportunity he was too thankful to embrace--a most favourable
means of surmounting the awkwardness of renewed intercourse with one, by
whom their last conversation could not be supposed to be forgotten.

"This is well--this fulfilment of the treaty of Bale," said Toussaint.
"But it would have been better if the fulfilment had been more prompt.
The time for excuses and apologies is past.  I merely say, as sincerity
requires, that the most speedy fulfilment of treaties is ever the most
honourable; and that I am guiltless of such injury as may have arisen
from calling off ten thousand blacks from the peaceful pursuits of
agriculture and commerce, to march them to the gates of Saint Domingo.
You, the authorities of the city, compelled me to lead them there, in
enforcement of the claims of France.  If warlike thoughts have sprung up
in those ten thousand minds, the responsibility is not mine.  I wish
that nothing but peace should be in the hearts of men of all races.
Have you wishes to express, in the name of the citizens?  Show me how I
can gratify them."

"Don Alonzo Dovaro explains," said the interpreter, "that it will be
acceptable to the Spanish inhabitants that you take the customary oath,
in the name of the Holy Trinity, respecting the government of their
whole region."

"It is indeed a holy duty.  What is the purport of the oath?"

"In the name of the Holy Trinity, to govern wisely and well."

"Has there lived a Christian man who would take that oath?"

"Every governor of the Spanish colony in this island, from Diego, the
brother of Columbus, to this day."

"What is human wisdom," said Toussaint, "that a man should swear that he
will be always wise?  What is human virtue, that he should pledge his
salvation on governing well?  I dare not take the oath."

The Spaniards showed that they understood French by the looks they cast
upon each other, before Laxabon could complete his version.

"This, however, will I do," said Toussaint.  "I will meet you to-morrow,
at the great church in Port-au-Prince, and there bind myself before the
altar, before the God who hears me now, on behalf of your people, to be
silent on the past, and to employ my vigilance and my toils in rendering
happy the Spanish people, now become my fellow-citizens of France."

A profusion of obeisances proved that this was satisfactory.  The late
governor of the city took from one of his officers the velvet cushion on
which were deposited the keys of Saint Domingo, and transferred it to
the hands of the Commander-in-chief.  At the moment, there was an
explosion of cannon from the terrace on which stood the town; the bells
rang in all the churches; and bursts of military music spread over the
calm bay, with the wreaths of white smoke from the guns.  The flamingoes
took flight again from the strand; the ships moved in their anchorage;
the shouts of the people arose from the town, and those of the soldiery
from the square of the great avenue.  Their idol, their Ouverture, was
now in command of the whole of the most beautiful of the isles of the
west.

As soon as he could be heard, Toussaint introduced his brother to the
Spaniards.  Placing the cushion containing the keys upon the table, and
laying his hand upon the keys, he declared his intention of giving to
the inhabitants of the city of Saint Domingo a pledge of the merciful
and gentle character of the government under which they were henceforth
to live, in the person of the new governor, Paul L'Ouverture, who had
never been known to remember unkindness from day-to-day.  The new
governor would depart for the east of the island on the morrow, from the
door of the church, at the close of the celebration.

The levee was now over.  Spanish, French, and the family and guests of
the Commander-in-chief, were to meet at a banquet in the evening.
Meantime, Toussaint and his brother stepped out together upon the
northern piazza, and the room was cleared.

"I wish," said Paul, "that you had appointed any one but me to be
governor of that city.  How should a poor negro fisherman like me govern
a city?"

"You speak like a white, Paul.  The whites say of me, `How should a poor
negro postillion govern a colony?'  You must do as I do--show that a
negro can govern."

"But Heaven made you for a ruler."

"Who thought so while I was yet a slave?  As for you--I know not what
you can do till you have tried; nor do you.  I own that you are not the
man I should have appointed, if I had had a choice among all kinds of
men."

"Then look around for some other."

"There is no other, on the whole, so little unfit as you.  Henri must
remain in the field while Rigaud is in arms.  Jacques--"

"Ay, Dessalines--and he might have a court--such a wife as he would
carry."

"Dessalines must not govern a city of whites.  He hates the whites.  His
passion of hatred would grow with power; and the Spaniards would be
wretched.  They are now under my protection.  I must give them a
governor who cannot hate; and therefore I send you.  Your love of our
people and of me, my brother, will rouse you to exertion and
self-denial.  For the rest you shall have able counsellors on the spot.
For your private guidance, I shall be ever at your call.  Confide wholly
in me, and your appeal shall never be unanswered."

"You shall be governor, then.  I will wear the robes, and your head
shall do the work.  I will amuse the inhabitants with water-parties, and
you--"

"No more of this!" said Toussaint, somewhat sternly.  "It seems that you
are unwilling to do your part of the great duty of our age and our race.
Heaven has appointed you the opportunity of showing that blacks are
men--fit to govern as to serve;--and you would rather sleep in the
sunshine than listen to the message from the sky.  My own brother does
what he can to deepen the brand on the forehead of the negro!"

"I am ashamed, brother," said Paul, "I am not like you; but yet I will
do what I can.  I will go to-morrow, and try whether I can toil as you
do.  There is one thing I can do which Henri, and Jacques, and even you,
cannot;--I can speak Spanish."

"You have discovered one of your qualifications, dear Paul.  You will
find more.  Will you take Moyse with you?"

"Let it be a proof that I can deny myself, that I leave my son with you.
Moyse is passionate."

"I know it," said Toussaint.

"He governs both his love and his hatred before you, while with me he
indulges them.  He must remain with you, in order to command his
passions.  He inherited them from me; and I must thus far help him to
master them.  You are all-powerful with him.  I have no power."

"You mean that Genifrede and I together are all-powerful with him.  I
believe it is so."

"To you, then, I commit him.  Moyse is henceforth your son."

"As Genifrede is your daughter, Paul.  If I die before the peace of the
island is secured, there are two duties which I assign to you--to
support the spirit of the blacks, and to take my Genifrede for your
daughter.  The rest of my family love each other, and the world we live
in.  She loves only Moyse."

"She is henceforth my child.  But when will you marry them?"

"When Moyse shall have done some act to distinguish himself--for which
he shall not want opportunity.  I have a higher duty than that to my
family--it is my duty to call out all the powers of every black.  Moyse
must therefore prove what he can do, before he can marry his love.  For
him, however, this is an easy condition."

"I doubt not you are right, brother; but it is well for me that the days
of my love are past."

"Not so, Paul.  The honour of your race must now be your love.  For this
you must show what you can do."

They had paced the northern piazza while conversing.  They now turned
into the eastern, where they came upon the lovers, who were standing
half shrouded by creeping plants--Moyse's arm round Genifrede's waist,
and Genifrede's head resting on her lover's shoulder.  The poor girl was
sobbing violently, while Moyse was declaring that he would marry her,
with or without consent, and carry her with him, if he was henceforth to
live in the east of the island.

"Patience, foolish boy!" cried his father.  "You go not with me.  I
commit you to my brother.  You will stay with him, and yield him the
duty of a son--a better duty than we heard you planning just now."

"As soon as you prove yourself worthy, you shall be my son indeed," said
Toussaint.  "I have heard your plans of marriage.  You shall hear mine.
I will give you opportunities of distinguishing yourself, in the
services of the city and of the field.  After the first act which proves
you worthy of responsibility, I will give you Genifrede.  As a free man,
can you desire more?"

"I am satisfied--I am grateful," said Moyse.  "I believe I spoke some
hasty words just now; but we supposed I was to be sent among the
whites--and I had so lately returned from the south--and Genifrede was
so wretched!"

Genifrede threw herself on her father's bosom, with broken words of love
and gratitude.  It was the first time she had ever voluntarily
approached so near him; and she presently drew back, and glanced in his
face with timid awe.

"My Genifrede!  My child!" cried Toussaint, in a rapture of pleasure at
this loosening of the heart.  He drew her towards him, folded his arms
about her, kissed the tears from her cheek, and hushed her sobs, saying,
in a low voice which touched her very soul--

"He can do great deeds, Genifrede.  He is yours, my child; but we shall
all be proud of him."

She looked up once more, with a countenance so radiant, that Toussaint
carried into all the toils and observance of the day the light heart of
a happy father.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  I have to acknowledge that injustice is done in this work to
the character of General Vincent.  The writer of historical fiction is
under that serious liability, in seizing on a few actual incidents,
concerning a subordinate personage, that he makes himself responsible
for justice to the whole character of the individual whose name he
introduces into his story.  Under this liability I have been unjust to
Vincent, as Scott was to Edward Christian, in "Peveril of the Peak," and
Campbell to Brandt, in "Gertrude of Wyoming."  Like them, I am anxious
to make reparation on the first opportunity.  It is true that in my
Appendix I avowed that Vincent was among those of my personages whose
name alone I adopted, without knowing his character; but such an
explanation in an appendix does not counteract the impression already
made by the work.  Finding this, I had thoughts of changing the name in
the present edition; but I feared the character being still identified
with Vincent, from its being fact that it was Vincent who accompanied
Toussaint's sons to Paris, and returned with the deputation, as I have
represented; I think it best, therefore, to say here that, from all I
can learn, General Vincent was an honourable and useful man, and that
the delineation of character under that name in my book is purely
fictitious.  The following extract from Clarkson's pamphlet on Negro
Improvement will show in what estimation General Vincent is held by one
whose testimony is of the highest value:--

"The next witness to whom I shall appeal is the estimable General
Vincent, who now lives at Paris, though at an advanced age.  He was a
Colonel, and afterwards a General of Brigade of Artillery in Saint
Domingo.  He was detained there during the time both of Santhonax and
Toussaint.  He was also a proprietor of estates in the island.  He was
the man who planned the renovation of its agriculture after the
abolition of slavery, and one of the great instruments in bringing it to
the perfection mentioned by La Croix.  In the year 1801 he was called
upon by Toussaint to repair to Paris, to lay before the Directory the
new Constitution, which had been agreed on in Saint Domingo.  He obeyed
the summons.  It happened that he arrived in France just at the moment
of the Peace of Amiens.  Here he found, to his inexpressible surprise
and grief, that Bonaparte was preparing an immense armament, under
Leclerc, to restore slavery in Saint Domingo.  He remonstrated against
the expedition: he told him to his face that though the army destined
for this purpose was composed of the brilliant conquerors of Europe,
they could do nothing in the Antilles.  He stated, as another argument
against the expedition, that it was totally unnecessary, and, therefore,
criminal; for that everything was going on well in Saint Domingo; the
proprietors in peaceable possession of their estates, cultivation making
rapid progress, the Blacks industrious, and beyond example happy."



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

L'ETOILE AND ITS PEOPLE.

One radiant day of the succeeding spring, a party was seen in the plain
of Cul-de-Sac, moving with such a train as showed that one of the
principal families of the island was travelling.  Rigaud and his forces
were so safely engaged in the south, that the plain was considered
secure from their incursions.  Port-au-Prince, surrounded on three sides
by hills, was now becoming so hot, that such of its inhabitants as had
estates in the country were glad to retire to them, as soon as the roads
were declared safe; and among these were the family of the
Commander-in-Chief, who, with tutors, visitors, and attendants, formed
the group seen in the Cul-de-Sac this day.  They were removing to their
estate of Pongaudin, on the shores of the bay of Gonaves, a little to
the north of the junction of the Artibonite with the sea; but instead of
travelling straight and fast, they intended to make a three days'
journey of what might have been accomplished in less than two--partly
for the sake of the pleasure of the excursion, and partly to introduce
their friends from Europe to some of the beauties of the most beautiful
island in the world.

Madame L'Ouverture had had presents of European carriages, in which she
did not object to take airings in the towns and their neighbourhood; but
nowhere else were the roads in a state to bear such heavy vehicles.  In
the sandy bridle-paths they would have sunk half their depth; in the
green tracks they would have been caught in thickets of brambles and low
boughs; while many swamps occurred which could be crossed only by single
horses, accustomed to pick their way in uncertain ground.  The ladies of
the colony, therefore, continued, as in all time past, to take their
journeys on horseback, each attended by some one--a servant, if there
were neither father, brother, nor lover--to hold the umbrella over her
during rain, or the more oppressive hours of sunshine.

The family of L'Ouverture had left the palace early, and were bound, for
an estate in the middle of the plain, where they intended to rest,
either till evening, or till the next morning, as inclination might
determine.  As their train, first of horses, and then of mules, passed
along, now under avenues of lofty palms, which constituted a deep, moist
shade in the midst of the glare of the morning--now across fields of
sward, kept green by the wells which were made to overflow them; and now
through swamps where the fragrant flowering reeds reached up to the
flanks of the horses, and courted the hands of the riders, the
inhabitants of the region watched their progress, and gave them every
variety of kindly greeting.  The mother who was sitting at work under
the tamarind-tree called her children down from its topmost branches to
do honour to the travellers.  Many a half-naked negro in the
rice-grounds slipped from the wet plank on which, while gazing, he
forgot his footing, and laughed his welcome from out of the mud and
slime.  The white planters who were taking their morning ride over their
estates, bent to the saddle-bow, the large straw hat in hand, and would
not cover their heads from the hot sun till the ladies had passed.
These planters' wives and daughters, seated at the shaded windows, or in
the piazzas of their houses, rose and curtsied deep to the ladies
L'Ouverture.  Many a little black head rose dripping from the clear
waters, gleaming among the reeds, where negro children love to watch the
gigantic dragon-flies of the tropics creeping from their sheaths, and to
catch them as soon as they spread their gauzy wings, and exhibit their
gem-like bodies to the sunlight.  Many a group of cultivators in the
cane-grounds grasped their arms, on hearing the approach of numbers--
taught thus by habitual danger--but swung back the gun across the
shoulder, or tucked the pistol again into the belt, at sight of the
ladies; and then ran to the road-side to remove any fancied obstruction
in the path; or, if they could do no more, to smile a welcome.  It was
observable that, in every case, there was an eager glance, in the first
place, of search for L'Ouverture himself; but when it was seen that he
was not there, there was still all the joy that could be shown where he
was not.

The whole country was full of song.  As Monsieur Loisir, the architect
from Paris, said to Genifrede, it appeared as if vegetation itself went
on to music.  The servants of their own party sang in the rear; Moyse
and Denis, and sometimes Denis' sisters, sang as they rode; and if there
was not song already on the track, it came from behind every flowering
hedge--from the crown of the cocoa-nut tree--from the window of the
cottage.  The sweet wild note of the mocking-bird was awakened in its
turn; and from the depths of the tangled woods, where it might defy the
human eye and hand, it sent forth its strain, shrill as the thrush, more
various than the nightingale, and sweeter than the canary.  But for the
bird, the Spanish painter, Azua, would have supposed that all this music
was the method of reception of the family by the peasantry; but, on
expressing his surprise to Aimee, she answered that song was as natural
to Saint Domingo, when freed, as the light of sun or stars, when there
were no clouds in the sky.  The heart of the negro was, she said, as
naturally charged with music as his native air with fragrance.  If you
dam up his mountain-streams, you have, instead of fragrance, poison and
pestilence; and if you chain up the negro's life in slavery, you have,
for music, wailing and curses.  Give both free course, and you have an
atmosphere of spicy odours, and a universal spirit of song.

"This last," said Azua, "is as one long, but varied, ode in honour of
your father.  Men of some countries would watch him as a magician, after
seeing the wonders he has wrought.  Who, looking over this wide level,
on which plenty seems to have emptied her horn, would believe how lately
and how thoroughly it was ravaged by war?"

"There seems to be magic in all that is made," said Aimee; "so that all
are magicians who have learned to draw it forth.  Monsieur Loisir was
showing us yesterday how the lightning may now be brought down from the
thunder-cloud, and carried into the earth at some given spot.  Our
servants, who have yearly seen the thunderbolt fire the cottage or the
mill, tremble, and call the lightning-rods magic.  My father is a
magician of the same sort, except that he deals with a deeper and higher
magic."

"That which lies in men's hearts--in human passions."

"In human affections; by which he thinks more in the end is done than by
their passions."

"Did you learn this from himself?" asked Azua, who listened with much
surprise and curiosity to this explanation from the girl by whose side
he rode.  "Does your father explain to you his views of men, and his
purposes with regard to them?"

"There is no need," she replied.  "From the books he has always read, we
know what he thinks of men's minds and ways: and from what happens, we
learn his purposes; for my father always fulfils his purposes."

"And who led you to study his books, and observe his purposes?"

"My brother Isaac."

"One of those who is studying at Paris?  Does he make you study here,
while he is being educated there?"

"No; he does not make me study.  But I know what he is doing--I have
books--Isaac and I were always companions--He learns from me what my
father does--But I was going to tell you, when you began asking about my
father, that this plain will not appear to you throughout so,
flourishing as it does now, from the road.  When we reach the Etoile
estate, you will see enough of the ravages of war."

"I have perceived some signs of desertion in a house or two that we have
passed," said Azua.  "But these brothers of yours--when will they
return?"

"Indeed I wish I knew," sighed Aimee.  "I believe that depends on the
First Consul."

"The First Consul has so much to do, it is a pity their return should
depend upon his memory.  If he should forgot, you will go and see Paris,
and bring your brothers home."

"The First Consul forgets nothing," replied Aimee.  "He knows and heeds
all that we do here, at the distance of almost half the world.  He never
forgets my brothers: he is very kind to them."

"All that you say is true," said Vincent, who was now on the other side
of Aimee.  "Everything that you can say in praise of the First Consul is
true.  But yet you should go and see Paris.  You do not know what Paris
is--you do not know what your brothers are like in Paris--especially
Isaac.  He tells you, no doubt, how happy he is there?"

"He does; but I had rather see him here."

"You have fine scenery here, no doubt, and a climate which you enjoy:
but there! what streets and palaces--what theatres--what libraries and
picture-galleries--and what society!"

"Is it not true, however," said Azua, "that all the world is alike to
her where her brother is?"

"This is L'Etoile," said Aimee.  "Of all the country houses in the
island, this was, not perhaps the grandest, but the most beautiful.  It
is now ruined; but we hear that enough remains for Monsieur Loisir to
make out the design."

She turned to Vincent, and told him that General Christophe was about to
build a house; and that he wished it to be on the model of L'Etoile, as
it was before the war.  Monsieur Loisir was to furnish the design.

The Europeans of the party were glad to be told that they had nearly
arrived at their resting place; for they could scarcely sit their
horses, while toiling in the heat through the deep sand of the road.
They had left far behind them both wood and swamp; and, though the
mansion seemed to be embowered in the green shade, they had to cross
open ground to reach it.  At length Azua, who had sunk into a despairing
silence, cried out with animation--

"Ha! the opuntia! what a fence! what a wall!"

"You may know every deserted house in the plain," said Aimee, "by the
cactus hedge round it."

"What ornament can the inhabited mansion have more graceful, more
beautiful?" said Azua, forgetting the heat in his admiration of the
blossoms, some red, some snow-white, some blush-coloured, which were
scattered in profusion over the thick and high cactus hedge which barred
the path.

"Nothing can be more beautiful," said Aimee, "but nothing more
inconvenient.  See, you are setting your horse's feet into a trap."  And
she pointed to the stiff, prickly green shoots which matted all the
ground.  "We must approach by some other way.  Let us wait till the
servants have gone round."

With the servants appeared a tall and very handsome negro, well-known
throughout the island for his defence of the Etoile estate against
Rigaud.  Charles Bellair was a Congo chief, kidnapped in his youth, and
brought into Saint Domingo slavery; in which state he had remained long
enough to keep all his detestation for slavery, without losing his
fitness for freedom.  He might have returned, ere this, to Africa, or he
might have held some military office under Toussaint; but he preferred
remaining on the estate which he had partly saved from devastation,
bringing up his little children to revere and enthusiastically obey the
Commander-in-chief--the idol of their colour.  The heir of the Etoile
estate did not appear, nor transmit his claim.  Bellair, therefore, and
two of his former fellow bondsmen, cultivated the estate, paying over
the fixed proportion of the produce to the public funds.

Bellair hastened to lead Madame L'Ouverture's horse round to the other
side of the house, where no prickly vegetation was allowed to encroach.
His wife was at work and singing to her child under the shadow of the
colonnade--once an erection of great beauty, but now blackened by fire,
and at one end crumbling into ruins.

"Minerve!" cried Madame, on seeing her.

"Deesha is her name," said Bellair, smiling.

"Oh, you call her by her native name!  Would we all knew our African
names, as you know hers!  Deesha!"

Deesha hastened forward, all joy and pride at being the hostess of the
Ouverture family.  Eagerly she led the way into the inhabited part of
the abode--a corner of the palace-like mansion--a corner well covered in
from the weather, and presenting a strange contrast of simplicity and
luxury.

The courtyard through which they passed was strewed with ruins, which,
however, were almost entirely concealed by the brushwood, through which
only a lane was kept cleared for going in and out.  The whole was
shaded, almost as with an awning, by the shrubs which grew from the
cornices, and among the rafters which had remained where the roof once
was.  Ropes of creepers hung down the wall, so twisted, and of so long a
growth, that Denis had climbed half-way up the building by means of this
natural ladder, when he was called back again.  The jalousies were
decayed--starting away from their hinges, or hanging in fragments; while
the window-sills were gay with flowering weeds, whose seeds even took
root in the joints of the flooring within, open as it was to the air and
the dew.  The marble steps and entrance-hall were kept clear of weeds
and dirt, and had a strange air of splendour in the midst of the
desolation.  The gilding of the balustrades of the hall was tarnished;
and it had no furniture but the tatters of some portraits, whose frame
and substance had been nearly devoured by ants; but it was weather-tight
and clean.  The saloon to the right constituted the family dwelling.
Part of its roof had been repaired with a thatch of palm-leaves, which
formed a singular junction with the portion of the ceiling which
remained, and which exhibited a blue sky-ground, with gilt stars.  An
alcove had been turned into the fireplace, necessary for cooking.  The
kitchen corner was partitioned off from the sitting-room by a splendid
folding screen of Oriental workmanship, exhibiting birds-of-paradise,
and the blue rivers and gilt pagodas of China.  The other partitions
were the work of Bellair's own hands, woven of bamboo and long grass,
dyed with the vegetable dyes, with whose mysteries he was, like a true
African, acquainted.  The dinner-table was a marble slab, which still
remained cramped to the wall, as when it had been covered with plate, or
with ladies' work-boxes.  The seats were benches, hewn by Bellair's axe.
On the shelves and dresser of unpainted wood were ranged together
porcelain dishes from Dresden, and calabashes from the garden; wooden
spoons, and knives with enamelled handles.  A harp, with its strings
broken, and its gilding tarnished, stood in one corner; and musical
instruments of Congo origin hung against the wall.  It was altogether a
curious medley of European and African civilisation, brought together
amidst the ruins of a West Indian revolution.

The young people did not remain long in the house, however tempting its
coolness might have appeared.  At one side of the mansion was the
colonnade, which engrossed the architect's attention; on the other
bloomed the garden, offering temptations which none could resist--least
of all those who were lovers.  Moyse and his Genifrede stepped first to
the door which looked out upon the wilderness of flowers, and were soon
lost sight of among the shrubs.

Genifrede had her sketch-book in her hand.  She and her sister were here
partly for the sake of a drawing lesson from Azua; and perhaps she had
some idea of taking a sketch during this walk with Moyse.  He snatched
the book from her, however, and flung it through the window of a
garden-house which they passed, saying--

"You can draw while I am away.  For this hour you are all my own."

"And when will you be away?  Wherever you go, I will follow you.  If we
once part, we shall not meet again."

"We think so, and we say so, each time that we part; and yet we meet
again.  Once more, only the one time when I am to distinguish myself, to
gain you--only that once will we be parted; and then we will be happy
for over."

"Then you will be killed--or you will be sent to France, or you will
love some one else and forget me--"

"Forgot you!--love some one else!  Oh!  Heaven and earth!" cried Moyse,
clasping her in his arms, and putting his whole soul into the kisses he
impressed on her forehead.  "And what," he continued, in a voice which
thrilled her heart, "what would you do if I were killed?"

"I would die.  Oh, Moyse! if it should be so, wait for me!  Let your
spirit wait for mine!  It shall not be long."

"Shall my spirit come--shall I come as a ghost, to tell you that I am
dead?  Shall I come when you are alone, and call you away?"

"Oh! no, no!" she cried, shuddering.  "I will follow--you need not fear.
But a ghost--oh! no, no!"  And she looked up at him, and clasped him
closer.

"And why?" said Moyse.  "You do not fear me now--you cling to me.  And
why fear me then?  I shall be yours still.  I shall be Moyse.  I shall
be about you, haunting you, whether you see and hear me or not.  Why not
see and hear me?"

"Why not?" said Genifrede, in a tone of assent.  "But I dare not--I will
not.  You shall not die.  Do not speak of it."

"It was not I, but you, love, that spoke of it.  Well, I will not die.
But tell me--if I forget you--if I love another--what then?"  And he
looked upon her with eyes so full of love, that she laughed, and
withdrew herself from his arms, saying, as she sauntered on along the
blossom-strewn path--

"Then I will forget you too."

Moyse lingered for a moment, to watch her stately form, as she made a
pathway for herself amidst the tangled shrubs.  The walk, once a
smooth-shaven turf, kept green by trenches of water, was now overgrown
with the vegetation which encroached on either hand.  As the dark beauty
forced her way, the maypole-aloe shook its yellow crown of flowers, many
feet above her head; the lilac jessamine danced before her face; and the
white datura, the pink flower-fence, and the scarlet cordia, closed
round her form, or spread themselves beneath her feet.  Her lover was
soon again by her side, warding off every branch and spray, and saying--

"The very flowers worship you: but they and all--all must yield you to
me.  You are mine; and yet not mine till I have won you from your
father.  Genifrede, how shall I distinguish myself?  Show me the way,
and I shall succeed."

"Do not ask me," she replied, sighing.

"Nay, whom should I ask?"

"I never desired you to distinguish yourself."

"You do not wish it?"

"No."

"Not for your sake?"

"No."

And she looked around her with wistful eyes, in which her lover read a
wish that things would ever remain as they were now--that this moment
would never pass away.

"You would remain here--you would hide yourself here with me for ever!"
cried the happy Moyse.

"Here, or anywhere;--in the cottage at Breda;--in your father's hut on
the shore;--anywhere, Moyse, where there is nothing to dread.  I live in
fear; and I am wretched."

"What is it that you fear, love?  Why do you not trust, me to protect
you?"

"Then I fear for you, which is worse.  Why cannot we live in the woods
or the mountains, where there would be no dangerous duties, and no
cares?"

"And if we lived in the woods, you would be more terrified still.  There
would never be a falling star, but your heart would sink.  You would
take the voices of the winds for the spirits of the woods, and the
mountain mists for ghosts.  Then, there are the tornado and the
thunderbolt.  When you saw the trees crashing, you would be for making
haste back to the plain.  Whenever you heard the rock rolling and
bounding down the steep, or the cataract rising and roaring in the midst
of the tempest, you would entreat me to fly to the city.  It is in this
little beating heart that the fear lies."

"What then is to be done?"

"This little heart must beat yet a while longer; and then, when I have
once come back, it shall rest upon mine for ever."

"Beside my father?  He never rests.  Your father would leave us in
peace; but he has committed you to one who knows not what rest is."

"Nor ever will," said Moyse.  "If he closed his eyes, if he relaxed his
hand, we should all be sunk in ruin."

"We?  Who?  What ruin?"

"The whole negro race.  Do you suppose the whites are less cruel than
they were?  Do you believe that their thirst for our humiliation, our
slavery, is quenched?  Do you believe that the white man's heart is
softened by the generosity and forgiveness of the blacks?"

"My father believes so," replied Genifrede; "and do they not adore him--
the whites whom he has reinstated?  Do they not know that they owe to
him their lives, their homes, the prosperity of the island?  Does he not
trust the whites?  Does he not order all things for their good, from
reverence and affection for them?"

"Yes, he does," replied Moyse, in a tone which made Genifrede anxiously
explore his countenance.

"You think him deceived?" she said.

"No, I do not.  It is not easy to deceive L'Ouverture."

"You do not think--no, you cannot think, that he deceives the whites, or
any one."

"No.  L'Ouverture deceives no one.  As you say, he reveres the whites.
He reveres them for their knowledge.  He says they are masters of an
intellectual kingdom from which we have been shut out, and they alone
can let us in.  And then again.--Genifrede, it seems to me that he loves
best those who have most injured him."

"Not best," she replied.  "He delights to forgive: but what white has he
ever loved as he loves Henri?  Did he ever look upon any white as he
looked upon me, when--when he consented?  Moyse, you remember?"

"I do.  But still he loves the whites as if they were born, and had
lived and died, our friends, as he desires they should be.  Yet more--he
expects and requires that all his race should love them too."

"And you do not?" said Genifrede, timidly.

"I abhor them."

"Oh! hush! hush!  Speak lower.  Does my father know this?"

"Why should he?  If he once knew it--"

"Nay, if he knew it, he would give up his purposes of distinction for
you; and we might live here, or on the shore."

"My Genifrede, though I hate the whites, I love the blacks.  I love your
father.  The whites will rise upon us at home, as they are always
scheming against us in France, if we are not strong and as watchful as
we are strong.  If I and others leave L'Ouverture alone to govern, and
betake ourselves to the woods and the mountains, the whites will again
be masters, and you and I, my Genifrede, shall be slaves.  But you shall
not be a slave, Genifrede," he continued, soothing her tremblings at the
idea.  "The bones of the whites shall be scattered over the island, like
the shells on the sea-shore, before my Genifrede shall be a slave.  I
will cut the throat of every infant at every white mother's breast,
before any one of that race shall lay his grasp upon you.  The whites
never will, never shall again, be masters: but then, it must be by
L'Ouverture having an army always at his command; and of that army I
must be one of the officers.  We cannot live here, or on the sea-shore,
love, while there are whites who may be our masters.  So, while I am
away, you must pray Christ to humble the whites.  Will you?  This is all
you can do.  Will you not?"

"How can I, when my father is always exalting them?"

"You must choose between him and me.  Love the whites with him, or hate
them with me."

"But you love my father.  Moyse?"

"I do.  I adore him as the saviour of the blacks.  You adore him,
Genifrede.  Every one of our race worships him.  Genifrede, you love
him--your father."

"I know not--Yes, I loved him the other day.  I know not, Moyse.  I know
nothing but that--I will hate the whites as you do.  I never loved them:
now I hate them."

"You shall.  I will tell you things of them that will make you curse
them.  I know every white man's heart."

"Then tell my father."

"Does he not know enough already?  Is not his cheek furrowed with the
marks of the years during which the whites were masters; and is there
any cruelty, any subtlety, in them that he does not understand?  Knowing
all this, he curses, not them, but the flower which, he says, corrupted
them.  He keeps from them this power, and believes that all will be
well.  I shall tell him nothing."

"Yes, tell him all--all except--"

"Yes, and tell me first," cried a voice near at hand.  There was a great
rustling among the bushes, and Denis appeared, begging particularly to
know what they were talking about.  They, in return, begged to be told
what brought him this way, to interrupt their conversation.

"Deesha says Juste is out after wild-fowl, and, most likely, among some
of the ponds hereabouts."

"One would think you had lived in Cap all your days," said Moyse.  "Do
you look for wild-fowl in a garden?"

"We will see presently," said the boy, thrusting himself into the
thicket in the direction of the ponds, and guiding himself by the scent
of the blossoming reeds--so peculiar as to be known among the many with
which the air was filled.  He presently beckoned to his sister; and she
followed with Moyse, till they found themselves in the field where there
had once been several fish-ponds, preserved in order with great care.
All were now dried up but two; and the whole of the water being diverted
to the service of these two, they were considerable in extent and in
depth.  What the extent really was, it was difficult to ascertain at the
first glance, so hidden was the margin with reeds, populous with
wild-fowl.

Denis was earnestly watching these fowl, as he lay among the high grass
at some little distance from the water, and prevented his companions
from approaching any nearer.  The sun was hot, and Genifrede was not
long in desiring to return to the garden.

"Let us go back," said she.  "Juste is not here."

"Yes he is," said Denis.  "However, go back if you like.  I shall go
fowling with Juste."  And he began to strip off his clothes.

His companions were of opinion, however, that a son of the
Commander-in-chief must not sport with a farmer's boy, without leave of
parents or tutor; and they begged him to put on his clothes again, at
least till leave was asked.  Denis had never cared for his rank, except
when riding by his father's side on review-days; and now he liked it
less than ever, as the pond lay gleaming before him, the fowl sailing
and fluttering on the surface, and his dignity prevented his going among
them.

"What makes you say that Juste is here?" said Genifrede.

"I have seen him take five fowl in the last five minutes."

As he spoke, he plucked the top of a bulrush, and threw it with such
good aim, that it struck a calabash which appeared to be floating among
others on the surface of the pond.  That particular calabash immediately
rose, and the face of a negro child appeared, to the consternation of
the fowl, whose splashing and screaming might be heard far and wide.
Juste came out of the water, displaying at his belt the result of his
sport.  He had, as Denis had said, taken five ducks in five minutes by
pulling them under the water by the feet, while lying near them with his
head covered by the calabash.  The little fellow was not satisfied with
the admiration of the beholders; he ran homewards, with his clothes in
his hand, Denis at his heels, and his game dangling from his waist, and
dripping as he ran.

"Many a white would shudder to see that child," said Moyse, as Juste
disappeared.  "That is the way Jean's blacks wore their trophies during
the first days of the insurrection."

"Trophies!" said Genifrede.  "You mean heads: heads with their trailing
hair;" and her face worked with horror as she spoke.  "But it is not for
the whites to shudder, after what they did to Oge, and have done to many
a negro since."

"But they think we do not feel as they do."

"Not feel!  O Christ!  If any one of them had my heart before I knew
you--in those days at Breda, when Monsieur Bayou used to come down to
us!"

"Here comes that boy again," cried Moyse.  "Let us go into the thicket,
among the citrons."

Denis found them, however--found Moyse gathering the white and purple
blossoms for Genifrede, while she was selecting the fruit of most
fragrant rind from the same tree, to carry into the house.

"You must come in--you must come to dinner," cried Denis.  "Aimee has
had a drawing lesson, while you have been doing nothing all this while.
They said you were sketching; but I told them how idle you were."

"I will go back with Denis," said Genifrede.  "You threw away my
sketch-book, Moyse.  You may find it, and follow us."

Their path lay together as far as the garden-house.  When there, Moyse
seized Denis unawares, shot him through the window into the house, and
left him to get out as he might, and bring the book.  The boy was so
long in returning, that his sister became uneasy, lest some snake or
other creature should have detained him in combat.  She was going to
leave the table in search of him, because Moyse would not, when he
appeared, singing, and with the book upon his head.

"Who calls Genifrede idle?" cried he, flourishing the book.  "Look
here!"  And he exhibited a capital sketch of herself and Moyse, as he
had found them, gathering fruits and flowers.

"Can it be his own?" whispered Genifrede to her lover.

Denis nodded and laughed, while Azua gravely criticised and approved,
without suspicion that the sketch was by no pupil of his own.

In the cool evening, Genifrede was really no longer idle.  While Denis
and Juste were at play, they both at once stumbled and fell over
something in the long grass, which proved to be a marble statue of a
Naiad, lying at length.  Moyse seized it, and raised it where it was
relieved by a dark green back-ground.  The artist declared it an
opportunity for a lesson which was not to be lost: and the girls began
to draw, as well as they could for the attempts of the boys to restore
the broken urn to the arm from which it had fallen.  When Denis and
Juste found that they could not succeed, and were only chidden for being
in the way, they left the drawing party seated under their clump of
cocoa-nut trees, and went to hear what Madame was relating to Bellair
and Deesha, in the hearing of Monsieur Moliere, Laxabon, and Vincent.
Her narration was one which Denis had often heard, but was never tired
of listening to.  She was telling of the royal descent of her husband--
how he was grandson of Gaou Guinou, the king of the African tribe of
Arrudos: how this king's second son was taken in battle, and sold, with
other prisoners of war, into slavery: how he married an African girl on
the Breda estate, and used to talk of home and its wars, and its haunts,
and its sunshine idleness--how he used thus to talk in the evenings, and
on Sundays, to the boy upon his knee; so that Toussaint felt, from his
infancy, like an African, and the descendant of chiefs.  This was a
theme which Madame L'Ouverture loved to dwell on, and especially when
listened to as now.  The Congo chief and his wife hung upon her words,
and told in their turn how their youth had been spent at home--how they
had been kidnapped, and delivered over to the whites.  In the eagerness
of their talk, they were perpetually falling unconsciously into the use
of their negro language, and as often recalled by their hearers to that
which all could understand.  Moliere and Laxabon listened earnestly; and
even Loisir, occupied as he was still with the architecture of the
mansion, found himself impatient if he lost a word of the story.
Vincent alone, negro as he was, was careless and unmoved.  He presently
sauntered away, and nobody missed him.

He looked over the shoulder of the architect.

"What pains you are taking!" he said.  "You have only to follow your own
fancy and convenience about Christophe's house.  Christophe has never
been to France.  Tell him, or any others of my countrymen, that any
building you choose to put up is European, and in good taste, and they
will be quite pleased enough."

"You are a sinner," said Loisir; "but be quiet now."

"Nay--do not you find the blacks one and all ready to devour your
travellers' tales--your prodigious reports of European cities?  You have
only to tell like stories in stone and brick, and they will believe you
just as thankfully."

"No, no, Vincent.  I have told no tales so wicked as you tell of your
own race.  My travellers' tales are all very well to pass an hour, and
be forgotten; but Christophe's mansion is to stand for an age--to stand
as the first evidence, in the department of the arts, of the elevation
of your race.  Christophe knows, as well as you do without having been
to Paris, what is beautiful in architecture; and, if he did not, I would
not treacherously mislead him."

"Christophe knows!  Christophe has taste!"

"Yes.  While you have been walking streets and squares, he has been
studying the aisles of palms, and the crypts of the banyan, which, to an
open eye, may teach as much as a prejudiced mind can learn in all Rome."

"So Loisir is of those who flatter men in power?" said Vincent,
laughing.

"I look further," said Loisir; "I am working for men unborn.  I am
ambitious; but my ambition is to connect my name honourably with the
first great house built for a negro general.  My ambition is to build
here a rival to the palaces of Europe."

"Do what you will, you will not rival your own tales of them--unless you
find Aladdin's lamp among these ruins."

"If you find it, you may bring it me.  Azna has found something half as
good--a really fine statue in the grass."

Vincent was off to see it.  He found the drawing party more eager in
conversation than about their work.  Aimee was saying as he approached--

"General Vincent declares that he is as affectionate to us as if we were
the nearest to him of all the children of the empire.--Did you not say
so?" she asked, eagerly.  "Is not the First Consul's friendship for us
real and earnest?  Does he not feel a warm regard for my father?  Is he
not like a father to my brothers?"

"Certainly," said Vincent.  "Do not your brothers confirm this in their
letters?"

"Do they not, Genifrede?" repeated Aimee.

"They do; but we see that they speak as they think: not as things really
are."

"How can you so despise the testimony of those who see what we only hear
of?"

"I do not despise them or their testimony.  I honour their hearts, which
forget injuries, and open to kindness.  But they are young; they went
from keeping cattle, and from witnessing the desolations of war here, to
the first city of the world, where the first men lavish upon them
instructions, and pleasures, and flatteries; and they are pleased.  The
greatest of all--the First of the Whites, smiles upon the sons of the
First of the Blacks; and their hearts beat with enthusiasm for him.  It
is natural.  But, while they are in Paris, we are in Saint Domingo; and
we may easily view affairs, and judge men differently."

"And so," said Aimee, "distrust our best friends, and despise our best
instructors; and all from a jealousy of race!"

"We think the jealousy of race is with them," said Moyse, bitterly.
"There is not a measure of L'Ouverture's which they do not neutralise--
not a fragment of authority which they will yield.  As to friends, if
the Consul Bonaparte is our best friend among the Whites, may we be left
thus far friendless!"

"You mean that he has not answered my father's letters.  Monsieur
Vincent doubts not that an answer is on the way.  Remember, my brothers
have been invited to his table."

"There are blacks in Paris, who look on," replied Moyse, drily.

"And are there not whites too, from this island, who watch every
movement?"

"Yes: and those whites are in the private closet, at the very ear of
Bonaparte, whispering to him of L'Ouverture's ambition; while your
brothers penetrate no further than the saloon."

"My brothers would lay down their lives for Bonaparte and France," said
Aimee; "and you speak treason.  I am with them."

"And with me," said Vincent, in a whisper at her ear.  "Where I find the
loyal heart in woman, mine is ever loyal too."

Aimee was too much excited to understand in this what was meant.  She
went on--

"Here is Monsieur Vincent, of our own race, who has lived here and at
Paris--who has loved my father.--You love my father and his government?"
she said, with questioning eyes, interrupting herself.

"Certainly.  No man is more devoted to L'Ouverture."

"Devoted to my father," pursued Aimee, "and yet devoted to Bonaparte.
He is above the rivalry of races--as the First Consul is, and as Isaac
is."

"Isaac and the First Consul--these are the idols of Aimee's worship,"
said Genifrede.  "Worship Isaac still; for that is a harmless idolatry;
but give up your new religion, Aimee; for it is not sound."

"Why not sound?  How do you know that it is not sound?"

"When have the blacks ever trusted the whites without finding themselves
bound victims in the end?"

"I have," said Vincent.  "I have lived among them a life of charms, and
I am free," he continued, stretching his arms to the air--"free to
embrace the knees of both Bonaparte and L'Ouverture--free to embrace the
world."

"The end has not come yet," said Moyse.

"What end?" asked Aimee.

"Nay, God knows what end, if we trust the French."

"You speak from prejudice," said Aimee.  "Monsieur Vincent and my
brothers judge from facts."

"We speak from facts," said Genifrede; "from, let us see--from seven--
no, eight, very ugly facts."

"The eight Commissaries that the colony has been blessed with," said
Moyse.  "If they had taken that monkey which is looking down at your
drawing, Aimee, and seven of its brethren, and installed them at Cap,
they would have done us all the good the Commissaries have done, and far
less mischief.  The monkeys would have broken the mirrors, and made a
hubbub within the walls of Government-house.  These Commissaries, one
after another, from Mirbeck to Hedouville, have insulted the colony, and
sown quarrels in it, from end to end."

"Mirbeck!  Here is Mirbeck," said Denis, who had come up to listen.  And
the boy rolled himself about like a drunken man--like Mirbeck, as he had
seen him in the streets of Cap.

"Then they sent Saint Leger, the Irishman," continued Moyse, "who kept
his hand in every man's pocket, whether black or white."

Denis forthwith had his hands, one in Vincent's pocket, the other in
Azua's.  Azua, however, was drawing so fast that he did not find it out.

"Then there was Roume."

"Roume.  My father speaks well of Roume," said Aimee.

"He was amiable enough, but so weak that he soon had to go home, where
he was presently joined by his successor, Santhonax, whom, you know,
L'Ouverture had to get rid of, for the safety of the colony.  Then came
Polverel.  What the tranquillity of Saint Domingo was in his day we all
remember."

Denis took off Polverel, spying from his ship at the island, on which he
dared not land.

"For shame, Denis?" said Aimee.  "You are ridiculing him who first
called my father L'Ouverture."

"And do you suppose he knew the use that would be made of the word?"
asked Genifrede.  "If he had foreseen its being a tide, he would have
contented himself with the obsequious bows I remember so well, and never
have spoken the word."

Denis was forthwith bowing, with might and main.

"Now, Denis, be quiet!  Raymond, dear Raymond, came next;" and she
looked up at Vincent as she praised his friend.

"Raymond is excellent as a man, whatever he may be as governor of Cap,"
said Moyse.  "But we have been speaking of whites, not of mulattoes--
which is another long chapter."

"Raymond was sent to us by France, however," said Aimee.

"So was our friend Vincent there; but that is nothing to the purpose."

"Well; who next?" cried Denis.

"Do not encourage him," said Aimee.  "My father would be vexed with you
for training him to ridicule the French--particularly the authorities."

"Now we are blessed with Hedouville," pursued Moyse.  "There you have
him, Denis--only scarcely sly, scarcely smooth enough.  Yet, that is
Hedouville, who has his eye and his smiles at play in one place, while
his heart and hands are busy in another."

"Busy," said Genifrede, "in undermining L'Ouverture's influence, and
counteracting his plans; but no one mentioned Ailbaud.  Ailbaud--"

"Stay a moment," said Azua, whose voice had not been heard till then.

All looked at him in surprise, nobody supposing that, while so engrossed
with his pencil, he could have cared for their conversation.  Aimee saw
at a glance that his paper was covered with caricatures of the
commissaries who had been enumerated.

"You must have known them," was Aimee's involuntary testimony, as the
paper went from hand to hand, amidst shouts of laughter, while Azua sat,
with folded arms, perfectly grave.

"I have seen some of the gentlemen," said he, "and Monsieur Denis helped
me to the rest."

The laughter went on till Aimee was somewhat nettled.  When the paper
came back to her, she looked up into the tree under which she sat.  The
staring monkey was still there.  She made a vigorous spring to hand up
the caricature, which the creature caught.  As it sat demurely on a
branch, holding the paper as if reading it, while one of its companions
as gravely looked over its shoulder, there was more laughter than ever.

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur Azua," said Aimee; "but this is the only
worthy fate of a piece of mockery of people wiser than ourselves, and no
less kind.  The negroes have hitherto been thought, at least, grateful.
It seems that this is a mistake.  For my part, however, I leave it to
the monkeys to ridicule the French."

Vincent seized her hand, and covered it with kisses.  She was abashed,
and turned away, when she saw her father behind her, in the shade of the
wood.  Monsieur Pascal, his secretary, was with him.

"My father!"

"L'Ouverture!" exclaimed one after another of the party; for they all
supposed he had been far away.  Even Denis at once gave over pelting the
monkeys, and left them to their study of the arts in peace.

"Your drawings, my daughters!" said L'Ouverture, with a smile, as if he
had been perfectly at leisure.  And he examined the Naiad, and then
Genifrede's drawing, with the attention of an artist.  Genifrede had
made great progress, under the eye of Moyse.  Not so Aimee; her pencil
had been busy all the while, but there was no Naiad on her page.

"They are for Isaac," she said, timidly.  "Among all the pictures he
sees, there are no--"

"No sketches of Denis and his little companions," said her father; "no
cocoa-nut clumps--no broken fountains among the aloes--no groups that
will remind him of home.  Isaac shall presently have these, Aimee.  I am
on my way to Cap, and will send them."

"On your way to Cap!" cried every one--some in a tone of fear.

"To Cap," said he, "where Father Laxabon will follow me immediately,
with Monsieur Pascal.  By them, Aimee, you will send your packet for
Isaac.  My own horse is waiting."

"Do not go alone--do not go without good escort," said Moyse.  "I can
give you reason."

"I know your thoughts, Moyse.  I go for the very reason that there are,
or will be, troubles at Cap.--The French authorities may sometimes
decree and do that which we feel to be unwise--unsuitable to the
blacks," he continued, with an emphasis which gave some idea of his
having overheard more or less of the late conversation; "but we
islanders maybe more ignorant still of the thoughts and ways of their
practised race."

"But you are personally unsafe," persisted Moyse.  "If you knew what is
said by the officers of Hedouville's staff--"

"They say," proceeded Toussaint, smiling, "that they only want three or
four brigands to seize the ape with the Madras head dress; and then all
would go well.  These gentlemen are mistaken; and I am going to prove
this to them.  An armed escort proves nothing.  I carry something
stronger still in my mind and on my tongue.  General Vincent, a word
with you."

While he and Vincent spoke apart, Aimee exclaimed, "Oh, Moyse!  Go with
my father!"

"Do not--Oh, do not!" cried Genifrede.  "You will never return!" she
muttered to him, in a voice of terror.  "Aimee, you would send him away:
and my mother--all of us, are far from home.  Who knows but that
Rigaud--"

"Leave Rigaud to me," cried Vincent, gaily, as he rejoined the party.
"I undertake Rigaud.  He shall never alarm you more.  Farewell,
Mademoiselle Aimee!  I am going to the south.  Rigaud is recruiting in
the name of France; and I know France too well to allow of that.  I
shall stop his recruiting, and choke his blasphemy with a good French
sword.  Farewell, till I bring you news at Pongaudin that you may ride
along the southern coast as securely as in your own cane-pieces."

"You are going?" said Aimee.

"This very hour.  I south--L'Ouverture north--"

"And the rest to Pongaudin with the dawn," said Toussaint.

"What is your pleasure concerning me?" asked Moyse.  "I wait your
orders."

"I remember my promise," said Toussaint; "but I must not leave my family
unprotected.  You will attend them to Pongaudin: and then let me see you
at Cap, with the speed of the wind."

"With a speed like your own, if that be possible," said Moyse.

"Is there danger, father?" asked Genifrede, trembling.

"My child, there is danger in the air we breathe, and the ground we
tread on: but there is protection also, everywhere."

"You will see Afra, father," said Aimee.  "If there is danger, what will
become of Afra?  Her father will be in the front, in any disturbance:
and Government-house is far from being the safest place."

"I will not forget Afra.  Farewell, my children!  Go now to your mother;
and, before this hour to-morrow, I shall think of you resting at
Pongaudin."

They saw him mount before the courtyard, and set off, followed by one of
his two trompettes--the only horsemen in the island who could keep up
with him, and therefore his constant attendants in his most important
journeys.  The other was gone forward, to order horses from post to
post.

Vincent, having received written instructions from the secretary, set
off in an opposite direction, more gay than those he left behind.

The loftiest trees of the rich plain were still touched with golden
light; and the distant bay glittered so as to make the gazers turn away
their eyes, to rest on the purple mountains to the north: but their
hearts were anxious; and they saw neither the glory nor the beauty of
which they heard talk between the painter, the architect, and their
host.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

A NIGHT OF OFFICE.

As soon as Toussaint was out of hearing of his family and suite, he put
his horse to its utmost speed.  There was not a moment to be lost, if
the peace of the island was to be preserved.  Faster than ever fugitive
escaped from trouble and danger, did the negro commander rush towards
them.  The union between the black and white races probably depended on
his reaching Cap by the early morning--in time to prevent certain
proclamations of Hedouville, framed in ignorance of the state of the
colony and the people, from being published.  Forty leagues lay between
L'Etoile and Cap, and two mountain ridges crossed his road: but he had
ridden forty leagues in a night before, and fifty in a long day; and he
thought little of the journey.  As he rode, he meditated the work of the
next day, while he kept his eye awake, and his heart open, to the beauty
of the night.

He had cleared the plain, with his trompette at his heels, before the
woods and fields had melted together into the purple haze of evening;
and the labourers returning from the cane-pieces, with their tools on
their shoulders, offered their homage to him as he swept by.  Some
shouted, some ran beside him, some kneeled in the road and blessed him,
or asked his blessing.  He came to the river, and found the ford lined
by a party of negroes, who, having heard and known his horse's tread,
above the music of pipe and drum, had thrown themselves into the water
to point out the ford, and save his precious moments.  He dashed through
uncovered, and was lost in the twilight before their greeting was done.
The evening star was just bright enough to show its image in the still
salt-lake, when he met the expected relay, on the verge of the mountain
woods.  Thence the ascent was so steep, that he was obliged to relax his
speed.  He had observed the birds winging home to these woods; they had
reached it before him, and the chirp of their welcome to their nests was
sinking into silence; but the whirring beetles were abroad.  The frogs
were scarcely heard from the marshes below; but the lizards and crickets
vied with the young monkeys in noise, while the wood was all alight with
luminous insects.  Wherever a twisted fantastic cotton-tree, or a
drooping wild fig, stood out from the thicket and apart, it appeared to
send forth streams of green flame from every branch; so incessantly did
the fireflies radiate from every projecting twig.

As he ascended, the change was great.  At length there was no more
sound; there were no more flitting fires.  Still as sleep rose the
mountain-peaks to the night.  Still as sleep lay the woods below.  Still
as sleep was the outspread western sea, silvered by the steady stars
which shone, still as sleep, in the purple depths of heaven.  Such was
the starlight on that pinnacle, so large and round the silver globes, so
bright in the transparent atmosphere were their arrowy rays, that the
whole, vault was as one constellation of little moons, and the horse and
his rider saw their own shadows in the white sands of their path.  The
ridge passed, down plunged the horseman, hurrying to the valley and the
plain; like rocks loosened by the thunder from the mountain-top.  The
hunter, resting on the heights from his day's chase of the wild goats,
started from his sleep, to listen to what he took for a threatening of
storm.  In a little while, the child in the cottage in the valley
nestled close to its mother, scared at the flying tramp; while the
trembling mother herself prayed for the shield of the Virgin's grace
against the night-fiends that were abroad.  Here, there was a solitary
light in the plain; there, beside the river; and yonder, behind the
village; and at each of these stations were fresh horses, the best in
the region, and smiling faces to tender their use.  The panting animals
that were left behind were caressed for the sake of the burden they had
carried, and of the few kind words dropped by their rider during his
momentary pause.

Thus was the plain beyond Mirbalais passed soon after midnight.  In the
dark the horsemen swam the Artibonite, and leaped the sources of the
Petite Riviere.  The eastern sky was beginning to brighten as they
mounted the highest steeps above Atalaye; and from the loftiest point,
the features of the wide landscape became distinct in the cool grey
dawn.  Toussaint looked no longer at the fading stars.  He looked
eastwards, where the green savannahs spread beyond the reach of human
eye.  He looked northwards, where towns and villages lay in the skirts
of the mountains, and upon the verge of the rivers, and in the green
recesses where the springs burst from the hill-sides.  He looked
westwards, where the broad and full Artibonite gushed into the sea, and
where the yellow bays were thronged with shipping, and every green
promontory was occupied by its plantation or fishing hamlet.  He paused,
for one instant, while he surveyed what he well knew to be virtually his
dominions.  He said to himself that with him it rested to keep out
strife from this paradise--to detect whatever devilish cunning might
lurk in its by-corners, and rebuke whatever malice and revenge might
linger within its bounds.  With the thought he again sprang forward,
again plunged down the steeps, scudded over the wilds, and splashed
through the streams; not losing another moment till his horse stood
trembling and foaming under the hot sun, now touching the Haut-du-Cap,
where the riders had at length pulled up.  Here they had overtaken the
first trompette, who, having had no leader at whose heels he must
follow, had been unable, with all his zeal, quite to equal the speed of
his companion.  He had used his best efforts, and showed signs of
fatigue; but yet they had come upon his traces on the grass road from
the Gros Morne, and had overtaken him as he was toiling up the
Haut-du-Cap.

Both waited for orders, their eyes fixed on their master's face, as they
saw him stand listening, and glancing his eye over the city, the
harbour, and the road from the Plain du Nord.  He saw afar signs of
trouble: but he saw also that he was not too late.  He looked down into
the gardens of Government-house.  Was it possible that he would show
himself there, heated, breathless, covered with dust as he was?  No.  He
dismounted, and gave his horse to the trompettes, ordering them to go by
the most public way to the hotel, in Place Mont Archer, to give notice
of the approach of his secretary and staff; and thence to the barracks,
where he would appear when he had bathed.

The trompettes would have gone round five weary miles for the honour of
carrying messages from the Commander-in-chief through the principal
streets of Cap.  They departed with great zeal, while Toussaint ascended
to the mountain-pool, to take the plunge in which he found his best
refreshment after a long ride.  He was presently walking leisurely down
the sloping field, through which he could drop into the grounds of
Government-house by a back gate, and have his interview with Hedouville
before interruption came from the side of the town.  As he entered the
gardens, he looked, to the wondering eyes he met there, as if he had
just risen from rest, to enjoy a morning walk in the shrubberies.  They
were almost ready to understand, in its literal sense, the expression of
his worshippers, that he rode at ease upon the clouds.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

AN OLD MAN IN NEW DAYS.

Before the sun had touched the roofs of the town of Cap--while the
streets lay cool and grey under the heights, which glowed in the flames
of sunrise--most of the inhabitants were up and stirring.  Euphrosyne
Revel was at her grandfather's chamber-door; first listening for his
call, and then softly looking in, to see whether he could still be
sleeping.  The door opened and shut by a spring, so that the old man did
not hear the little girl as she entered, though his sleep was not sound.
As Euphrosyne saw how restless he was, and heard him mutter, she
thought she would rouse him: but she stayed her hand, as she remembered
that he might have slept ill, and might still settle for another quiet
doze, if left undisturbed.  With a gentle hand she opened one of the
jalousies, to let in more air; and she chose one which was shaded by a
tree outside, that no glare of light might enter with the breeze.

What she saw from this window drew her irresistibly into the balcony.
It was a tree belonging to the convent which waved before the window;
and below lay the convent garden, fresh with the dews of the night.
There stretched the green walks, so glittering with diamond-drops and
with the gossamer as to show that no step had passed over them since
dawn.  There lay the parterres--one crowded with geraniums of all hues;
another with proud lilies, white, orange, and purple; and another with a
flowering pomegranate in the centre, while the gigantic white and blue
convolvulus coveted the soil all around, mixing with the bright green
leaves and crimson blossoms of the hibiscus.  No one seemed to be
abroad, to enjoy the garden during this the freshest hour of the day; no
one but the old black gardener, Raphael, whose cracked voice might be
heard at intervals from the depths of the shrubbery in the opposite
corner, singing snatches of the hymns which the sisters sung in the
chapel.  When his hoarse music ceased, the occasional snap of a bough,
and movements among the bushes, told that the old man was still there,
busy at his work.

Euphrosyne wished that he would come out, within sight of the beckon of
her hand.  She dared not call, for fear of wakening her grandfather: but
she very much wanted a flowering orange branch.  A gay little
humming-bird was sitting and hovering near her; and she thought that a
bunch of fragrant blossoms would entice it in a moment.  The little
creature came and went, flew round the balcony and retired: and still
old Raphael kept out of sight behind the leafy screen.

"It will be gone, pretty creature!" said Euphrosyne to herself; "and all
for want of a single bough from all those thickets!"

A thought struck her.  Her morning frock was tied round the waist with a
cord, having tassels which hung down nearly to her feet.  She took off
the cord, made a noose in it, and let it down among the shrubs below,
swinging the end this way and that, as she thought best for catching
some stray twig.  She pursued her aim for a time, sending showers of
dew-drops paltering down, and knocking off a good many blossoms, but
catching nothing.  She was so busy, that she did not see that a
grey-suited nun had come out, with a wicker cage in her hand, and was
watching her proceedings.

"What are you doing, my child?" asked the nun, approaching, as a new
shower of dew-drops and blossoms was shaken abroad.  "If you desire to
fish, I doubt not our reverend mother will make you welcome to our pond
yonder."

"Oh, sister Christine!  I am glad you are come out," said Euphrosyne,
bending over the balcony, and speaking in a low, though eager voice.
"Do give me a branch of something sweet,--orange, or citron, or
something.  This humming-bird, will be gone if we do not make haste--
Hush!  Do not call.  Grandpapa is not awake yet.  Please, make haste."

Sister Christine was not wont to make haste; but she did her best to
gratify Euphrosyne.  She went straight to the corner of the shrubbery
where the abbess's mocking-bird spent all its summer days, hung up the
cage, and brought back what Euphrosyne had asked.  The branch was drawn
up in the noose of the cord, and the nun could not but stand and watch
the event.

The bough was stuck between two of the bars of the jalousie, and the
girl withdrew to the end of the balcony.  The humming-bird appeared,
hovered round, and at last inserted its long beak in a blossom,
sustaining itself the while on its quivering wings.  Before proceeding
to another blossom it flew away.  Euphrosyne cast a smile down to the
nun, and placed herself against the jalousie, holding the branch upon
her head.  As she had hoped, two humming-birds returned.  After some
hesitation, they came for more of their sweet food, and Euphrosyne felt
that her hair was blown about on her forehead by the motion of their
busy wings.  She desired, above everything, to keep still; but this
strong desire, and the sight of sister Christine's grave face turned so
eagerly upwards, made her laugh so as to shake the twigs very fearfully.
Keeping her hand with the branch steady, she withdrew her head from
beneath, and then stole slowly and cautiously backward within the
window--the birds following.  She now heard her grandfather's voice,
calling feebly and fretfully.  She half turned to make a signal for
silence, which the old man so far observed as to sink his complaints to
a mutter.  The girl put the branch into a water-jar near the window, and
then stepped lightly to the bed.

"What is all this nonsense?" said Monsieur Revel.  "Why did not you come
the moment I called?"

"Here I am, grandpapa--and do look--look at my humming-birds!"

"Humming-birds--nonsense!  I called you twice."

Yet the old gentleman rubbed his eyes, which did not seem yet quite
awake.  He rubbed his eyes and looked through the shaded room, as if to
see Euphrosyne's new plaything.  She brought him his spectacles from the
toilette, helped to raise him up, threw a shawl over his shoulders, and
placed his pillows at his back.  Perceiving that he still could not see
very distinctly, she opened another blind, so as to let one level ray of
sunshine fall upon the water-jar, and the little radiant creatures that
were hovering about it.

"There! there!" cried Monsieur Revel, in a pleased tone.

"Now I will go and bring you your coffee," said Euphrosyne.

"Stop, stop, child!  Why are you in such a hurry?  I want to know what
is the matter.  Such a night as I have had!"

"A bad night, grandpapa?  I am sorry."

"Bad enough!  How came my light to go out?  And what is all this
commotion in the streets?"

Euphrosyne went to the night-lamp, and found that a very large flying
beetle had disabled itself by breaking the glass, and putting out the
light.  There it lay dead--a proof at least that there were no ants in
the room.

"Silly thing!" said Euphrosyne.  "I do wish these beetles would learn to
fly properly.  He must have startled you, grandpapa.  Did not you think
it was a thief, when you were left in the dark?"

"It is very odd that nobody about me can find me a lamp that will serve
me.  And then, what is all this bustle in the town?  Tell me at once
what is the matter."

"I know of nothing the matter.  The trompettes have been by this
morning; and they say that the Commander-in-chief is here: so there will
be nothing the matter.  There was some talk last night, Pierre said--
some fright about to-day.  But L'Ouverture is come; and it will be all
right now, you know."

"You know nothing about it, child--teazing one with your buzzing,
worrying humming-birds!  Go and get my coffee, and send Pierre to me."

"The birds will come with me, I dare say, if I go by the balcony.  I
will take them away."

"No, no.  Don't lose time with them.  Let them be.  Go and send Pierre."

When Euphrosyne returned with the coffee, she found, as Pierre had found
before her, Monsieur Revel so engrossed in looking through his
spectacles at the water-jar, as to have forgotten what he had to ask and
to say.

"You will find the bath ready whenever you want it, grandpapa," said
Euphrosyne, as she placed the little tray before him: "and it is a sweet
airy morning."

"Ay; I must make haste up, and see what is to be done.  It is not safe
to lie and rest in one's bed, in this part of the world."  And he made
haste to stir his coffee with his trembling hands.

"Oh, you have often said that--almost ever since I can remember--and
here we are, quite safe still."

"Tell the truth, child.  How dare you say that we have been safe ever
since you remember?"

"I said `almost,' grandpapa.  I do not forget about our being in the
woods--about--but we will not talk of that now.  That was all over a
long time ago; and we have been very safe since.  The great thing of all
is, that there was no L'Ouverture then, to take care of us.  Now, you
know, the Commander-in-chief is always thinking how he can take the best
care of us."

"`No L'Ouverture then!'  One would think you did not know what and where
Toussaint was then.  Why, child, your poor father was master over a
hundred such as he."

"Do you think they were like him?  Surely, if they had been like him,
they would not have treated us as they did.  Afra says she does not
believe, anybody like him ever lived."

"Afra is a pestilent little fool."

"Oh, grandpapa!"

"Well, well!  She is a very good girl in her way; but she talks about
what she does not understand.  She pretends to judge of governors of the
colony, when her own father cannot govern this town, and she never knew
Blanchelande!  Ah! if she had known Blanchelande, she would have seen a
man who understood his business, and had spirit to keep up the dignity
and honour of the colony.  If that sort of rule had gone on till now, we
should not have had the best houses in the island full of these black
upstarts; nor a mulatto governor in this very town."

"And then I should not have had Afra for a friend, grandpapa."

"You would have been better without, child.  I do not like to see you
for ever with a girl of her complexion, though she is the governor's
daughter.  There must be an end of it--there shall be an end of it.  It
is a good time now.  There is a reason for it to-day.  It is time you
made friends of your own complexion, child; and into the convent you
go--this very day."

"Oh, grandpapa, you don't mean that those nuns are of my complexion!
Poor pale creatures!  I would not for the world look like them: and I
certainly shall, if you put me there.  I had much rather look like Afra
than like sister Benoite, or sister Cecile.  Grandpapa! you would not
like me to look like sister Benoite?"

"How do I know, child?  I don't know one from another of them."

"No, indeed! and you would not know me by the time I had been there
three months.  How sorry you would be, grandpapa, when you asked for me
next winter, to see all those yellow-faced women pass before you, and
when the yellowest of all came, to have to say, `Can this be my poor
Euphrosyne!'"

Monsieur Revel could not help laughing as he looked up at the girl
through his spectacles.  He pinched her cheek, and said that there was
certainly more colour there than was common in the West Indies; but that
it must fade, in or out of the convent, by the time she was twenty; and
she had better be in a place where she was safe.  The convent was the
only safe place.

"You have often said that before," replied she, "and the time has never
come yet.  And no more it will now.  I shall go with Afra to the
cacao-gathering at Le Zephyr, as I did last year.  Oh, that sweet cool
place in the Mornes du Chaos!  How different from this great ugly square
white convent, with nothing that looks cheerful, and nothing to be heard
but teaching, teaching, and religion, religion, for ever."

"I advise you to make friends among the sisters, however, Euphrosyne;
for there you will spend the next few years."

"I will not make friends with anything but the poor mocking-bird.  I
have promised Afra not to love anybody instead of her; but she will not
be jealous of the poor bird.  It and I will spend the whole day in the
thicket, mocking and pining--pining and mocking.  The sisters shall not
get a word out of me--not one of them.  I may speak to old Raphael now
and then, that I may not forget how to use my tongue; but I vow that
poor bird shall be my only friend."

"We shall see that.  We shall see how long a giddy child like you can
keep her mocking-bird tone in the uproar that is coming upon us!  What
will you do, child, without me, when the people of this colony are
cutting one another's throats over my grave?  What will become of you
when I am gone?"

"Dear grandpapa, before that comes the question, What will you do
without me?  What will become of you when I am gone into that dull
place?  You know very well, grandpapa, that you cannot spare me."

The old man's frame was shaken with sobs.  He put his thin hands before
his face, and the tears trickled between his fingers.  Euphrosyne
caressed him, saying, "There!  I knew how it would be.  I knew I should
never leave you.  I never will leave you.  I will bring up your coffee
every morning, and light your lamp every night, as long as you live."

As she happened to be looking towards the door, she saw it opening a
little upon its noiseless hinges, and a hand which she knew to be
Pierre's beckoning to her.  Her grandfather did not see it.  She
withdrew herself from him with a sportive kiss, ordered him to rest for
a while, and think of nothing but her humming-birds, and carried the
tray out of the room.

Pierre was there, waiting impatiently with a note from Afra.

"I did not bring it in, Mademoiselle," said he, "because I am sure there
is something amiss.  A soldier brought the note; and he says he has
orders to stay for my master's commands."

Afra's note told what this meant.  It was as follows:--

"Dearest Euphrosyne,

"Do not be frightened.  There is time, if you come directly.  There is
no danger, if you come to us.  The cultivators are marching hither over
the plain.  It is with the whites that they are angry; so you had better
make yourselves secure with us.  The soldier who brings this will escort
Monsieur Revel and you this little way through the streets: but you must
lose no time.  We are sorry to hurry your grandfather; but it cannot be
helped.  Come, my dearest, to your

"Afra Raymond."

Pierre saw his young lady's face turn as pale as any nun's, as she
glanced over this note.

"The carriage, Pierre!  Have it to the door instantly."

"With your leave.  Mademoiselle, the soldier says no French carriages
will be safe in the streets this morning."

"Oh, mercy!  A chair, then.  Send for a chair this moment.  The soldier
will go for it--ask him as a favour.  They will not dare to refuse one
to a governor's guard.  Then come, and dress your master, and do not
look so grave, Pierre, before him."

Pierre went, and was met at the door by a servant with another note.  It
was--

"Do not come by the street, dearest Euphrosyne.  The nuns will let you
through their garden, into our garden alley, if you can only get your
grandfather over the balcony.  My two messengers will help you; but they
are much wanted:--so make haste.

"A.E."

"Make the soldiers sling an arm-chair from the balcony, Pierre; and send
one of them round into the convent garden, to be ready to receive us
there.  The abbess will have the gate open to the Government-house
alley.  Then come, and dress your master; and leave it to me to tell him
everything."

"Likely enough," muttered Pierre; "for I know nothing of what is in
those notes myself."

"And I do not understand what it is all about," said Euphrosyne, as she
returned to her grandfather.

He had fallen into a light doze, lulled by the motion and sound of the
humming-birds.  Euphrosyne kissed his forehead, to rouse him, and then
told him gaily that it was terribly late--he had no idea how late it
was--he must get up directly.  The bath! no; there must be no bath
to-day.  There was not time for it; or, at least, he must go a little
ride first.  A new sort of carriage was getting ready--

She now looked graver, as Pierre entered.  She said, that while Pierre
dressed him, she would put up some clothes for a short visit to
Government-house.

Monsieur Revel, being now alarmed, Euphrosyne admitted that some
confusion in the streets was expected, and that the Governor and Afra
thought that their friends would be most quiet at the back of
Government-house.

To her consternation, Monsieur Revel suddenly refused to stir a step
from his own dwelling.  He would not be deceived into putting himself
and his child into the hands of any mulattoes upon earth, governors or
other.  Not one of his old friends, in Blanchelande's time, would have
countenanced such an act; and he would not so betray his colour and his
child.  He had rather die on his own threshold.

"You must do as you please about that, sir," said Pierre; "but, for
Mademoiselle Euphrosyne, I must say, that I think it is full early for
her to die--and when she might be safe too!"

"Oh, grandpapa!  I cannot let you talk of our dying," cried Euphrosyne,
her cheeks bathed in tears.  "Indeed I will not die--nor shall you
either.  Besides, if that were all--"

The old man knew what was in her mind--that she was thinking of the
woods.  He sank down on his knees by the bedside, and prayed that the
earth might gape and swallow them up--that the sea might rush in, and
overflow the hollow where the city had been, before he and his should
fall into the hands of the cursed blacks.

"Grandpapa," said Euphrosyne, gravely, "if you pray such a prayer as
that, do not pray aloud.  I cannot hear such a prayer as that."
Struggling with her tears, she continued: "I know you are very much
frightened--and I do not wonder that you are: but I do wish you would
remember that we have very kind friends who will protect us, if we will
only make haste and go to them.  And as for their being of a different
colour--I do wonder that you can ask God to cause the earth to swallow
us up, when you know (at least, you have taught me so) we must meet
people of all races before the throne of God.  He has made of one blood
all the nations of the earth, you know."

Monsieur Revel shook his head impatiently, as if to show that she did
not understand his feelings.  She went on, however:--

"If we so hate and distrust them at this moment, here, how can we pray
for death, so as to meet them at the next moment there?  Oh, grandpapa!
let us know them a little better first.  Let us go to them now."

"Don't waste time so, child; you hinder my dressing."

He allowed himself to be dressed, and made no further opposition till he
found himself at the balcony of the next room.

"Here is your new coach," said Euphrosyne, "and plenty of servants:"
showing him how one of the soldiers and old Raphael stood below to
receive the chair, and the abbess herself was in waiting in a distant
walk, beside the wicket they were to pass through.

Of course, the old gentleman said he could never get down that way; and
he said something about dying on his own threshold--this time, however,
in a very low voice.  But, in the midst of his opposition, Euphrosyne
seated herself in the chair, and was let down.  When she could no longer
hear his complaints, but was standing beckoning to him from the
grass-plat below, he gave up all resistance, was let down with perfect
ease, and carried in the chair, followed by all the white members of his
household, through the gardens, and up the alley where Afra was awaiting
them.  There was a grey sister peeping from behind every blind as they
crossed the garden, and trembling with the revived fears of that
terrible night of ninety-one, when they had fled to the ships.  It was
some comfort to them to see old Raphael busy with rake and knife,
repairing the damage done to the bed under the balcony--all trampled as
it was.  Each nun said to herself that Raphael seemed to have no fears
but that the garden would go on as usual, whatever disturbance was
abroad.

"Have you seen him?" asked Euphrosyne eagerly of her friend, the moment
they met.

"Oh yes.  You shall see him too, from my window, if they will but talk
on till we get there.  He and the Commissary, and some of the
Commissary's officers, are in the rose-garden under my window.  Make
haste, or they may be gone."

"We must see grandpapa settled first."

"Oh yes; but I am so afraid they may be gone!  They have been pacing the
alley between the rose-trees this hour nearly--talking and arguing all
the time.  I am sure they were arguing; for they stopped every now and
then, and the Commissary made such gestures!  He looked so impatient and
so vexed!"

"And did _he_ look vexed, too?"

"Not in the least angry, but severe.  So quiet, so majestic he looked,
as he listened to all they said! and when he answered them--Oh, I would
not, for all the island, have his eyes so set upon me!"

"Oh dear, let us make haste, or they will be gone!" cried Euphrosyne.

While Euphrosyne was endeavouring to make her grandfather feel himself
at home and comfortable in the apartment appointed for him by the
Governor, Afra ran to her window, to see if the potentates of the island
were still at their conference.  The rose-garden was empty; and she came
back sorrowfully to say so.  As she entered the apartment of her guests,
she heard Monsieur Revel sending a message of compliments to the
Commissary, with a request of an audience of a few minutes.  The
servants gave as much intimation as they dared of the Commissary being
so particularly engaged, that they had rather be excused carrying this
message.  The girls looked at one another, nodded agreement, and
Euphrosyne spoke.

"Suppose, grandpapa, you ask to see the Commander-in-chief.  He never
refuses anything that is asked of him: and he can do everything he
wishes.  I dare say he will come at once, if you desire it, and if we do
not detain him too long.  If he had been in this room once with us, how
safe we should feel!"

"Oh, if we could see him once in this room!" cried Afra.

"Do you suppose I will beg a favour of that ambitious black?" cried
Monsieur Revel.  "Do you think I will crave an audience of a fellow who,
for aught I know, may have driven his master's carriage to my door in
the old days?--no, if I cannot see Hedouville, I will take my chance.
Go, fellow! and carry my message," he cried to Pierre.

Pierre returned with the answer which might have been anticipated.  The
Commissary was so engaged, there was so much bustle and confusion
throughout his establishment, that no one of his people would deliver
the message.

"That would not have been the answer if--" whispered Euphrosyne to her
friend.

"Shall I venture?--yes, I will--shall I?  At least, I will keep upon the
watch," said Afra, as she withdrew.

She presently sent in, with the tray of fruit, a basket of flowers,
which Euphrosyne occupied herself in dressing, exactly as she did at
home, humming the while the airs her grandfather heard her sing every
day.  Her devices answered very well.  He presently occupied himself in
pointing out, exactly as he always did, that there was too much green in
this bouquet, and not enough in that.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

SPOILING SPORT.

Nothing could exceed the astonishment of the Commissary on seeing
Toussaint this morning.  Hedouville was amusing himself, before the sun
was high, alternately with three or four of his officers, in duetting
with a parrot, which had shown its gaudy plumage among the dark foliage
of a tamarind-tree in the garden.  At every pause in the bird's chatter,
one of the gentlemen chattered in reply; and thus kept up the discord,
to the great amusement of the party.  Hedouville was just declaring that
he had obtained the best answer--the loudest and most hideous--when he
heard the swing of a gate, and, turning round, saw Toussaint entering
from the barrack-yard.

"The ape!" exclaimed one of the officers, in a whisper.

"Who--who is it?" eagerly asked a naval captain, lately arrived.

"Who should it be but the black chief?  No other of his race is fond
enough of us to be for ever thrusting himself upon us.  He is
confoundedly fond of the whites."

"We only ask him," said Delon, another officer, "to like us no better
than we like him, and leave us to manage our business our own way."

"Say the word, Commissary," whispered the first, "and he shall not go
hence so easily as he came."

"I should beg pardon, Commissary," said Toussaint, as he approached,
"for presenting myself thus--for entering by a back-way--if it were not
necessary.  The crisis requires that we should agree upon our plan of
operations, before we are seen in the streets.  It is most important
that we should appear to act in concert.  It is the last chance for the
public safety."

"Crisis!--public safety!--seen in the streets!" exclaimed Hedouville.
"I assure you, General, I have no thoughts of going abroad till evening.
It will be a scorching day.  Is the crisis you speak of that of the
heats?"

"No trifling, Commissary!  Gentlemen," said he, turning to the officers,
who happened to be laughing, "no levity!  The occasion is too serious
for mirth or for loss of time.  Shall we speak alone, Commissary?"

"By no means," said Hedouville.  "These gentlemen would not for the
world miss hearing your news.  Has a fresh insurrection been contrived
already? or has any Frenchman forgotten himself, and kissed Psyche, or
cuffed Agamemnon?"

"A new insurrection has been contrived; and by you.  The cultivators are
marching over the plain; and in four hours the town will be sacked, if
you, Monsieur Hedouville, who have given the provocation, do not
withdraw it.  You must sign this proclamation.  It is the opposite of
your own now waiting for jubilation.  But you must sign and issue it--
and that within this hour.  I hear what you say, gentlemen.  You say
that I have raised the cultivators.  I have not.  There is not a negro
in the plain who does not at this moment believe that I am in the south.
I come to put them down; but I will not go out with the sword in one
hand, if I do not carry justice in the other."

"What do you mean about justice, General?  What injustice has been
done?"

"Here is the draft of your proclamation--"

"How came you by that paper--by the particulars of my intention?" asked
Hedouville.  "My proclamation is yet locked up in my own desk."

"Its contents are nevertheless known throughout the colony.  When a
Commissary, lightly and incidentally (and therefore the more
offensively) settles, without understanding them, the most important
points of difference between two unreconciled races, the very winds
stoop in their flight, to snatch up the tidings, and drop them as they
fly.  See here!  See how you pronounce on the terms of field-service--
and here, on the partition of unclaimed estates--and here, on the claims
of the emigrants!  The blacks must be indeed as stupid as you hold them
to be, if they did not spread the alarm that you are about to enslave
them again."

"I protest I never dreamed of such a thing."

"I believe you.  And that you did not so dream, shows that you are blind
to the effects of your own measures--that the cultivators of the plain
understand your proceedings better than you do yourself.  Here is the
proclamation which must be issued."

And he offered a paper, which Hedouville took, but tore in pieces,
trampling them under foot, and saying, that he had never before been so
insulted in his function.

"That is a childish act," observed Toussaint, as he looked down upon the
fragments of the document.  "And a useless one," he continued; "for my
secretary is getting it printed off by this time."

"Are you going to dare to put my name to a proclamation I have not
seen?"

"Certainly not.  My name will suffice, if you compel me to dispense with
yours.  This proclamation grants--"

Hedouville here gave whispered directions to Delon, who hastened towards
the house; and to another, who made for the barrack-yard.

"From every quarter," said Toussaint, "you will have confirmation of the
news I brought.  I will speak presently of what must be done.  This
proclamation," pointing to the torn paper, "grants an amnesty to all
engaged in former conflicts of race, and declares that there are no
`returned emigrants' in the island--that they are all considered native
proprietors--that all now absent shall be welcome again, and shall be
protected--that the blacks are free citizens, and will so remain; but
that they shall continue for five years to till the estates on which
they live, for one-fourth of the produce."

"I do not see the grounds of your disgust with my proclamation," said
Hedouville.  "I think your anger absurd."

"I have no doubt you do.  This proves, with a multitude of other
circumstances, that you must go."

"Admirable!  And leave the colony to your government!"

"Just so.  If you ask the whites of the island, they will tell you,
almost to a man, that I can govern the whites; while events daily show
that you cannot rule the blacks.  While you have held the title of
Commissary, you know that you have ruled only by my permission--
sometimes strengthened by my approbation--oftener spared by my
forbearance.  I am aware that these gentlemen are not of that opinion,"
he continued, his voice assuming the mildness which always distinguished
it when he spoke of his personal injuries.  "They believe that if two or
three brigands could be got to seize in his camp the ape with the Madras
on his head, all would be well.  But they are mistaken.  They may play
the brigand, and seize me now; but then the town will be burning before
night."

"You should not believe all the saucy things that are told you--you
should not care for the impertinence of young soldiers," said
Hedouville, who suspected that his affairs were reality in a critical
state, and had now resumed his usual smoothness of manner.  He led the
way up the alley between the rose-trees, that the torn proclamation
might be no longer in sight.

"No doubt," observed an officer, gravely, "the Commissary will report to
the First Consul (if you really persist in sending the Commissary
away)--he will doubtless report to the First Consul the prodigious power
you hold here, and how great a rival Bonaparte has on this side the
water."

"And how willing a servant," added Toussaint--"how willing to bear the
burden of government for the good of France."

"Burden!" exclaimed all.

"Yes," replied Toussaint: "where is there a heavier burden?  Do you
suppose that men choose their own office in life?  If so, should I have
chosen such a one as mine?  Was the pleasure of Heaven ever more clearly
revealed than in my case?  Ask the First Consul whether it was possible
for me to be other than I am.  The revolution of Saint Domingo proceeded
without any interference from me--a negro slave.  I saw that the
dominion of the whites could not last, divided as they were among
themselves, and lost in the numbers of their foes.  I was glad that I
was a black.  The time came when I was compelled to act.  I associated
myself with the Spaniards, who were the allies of my king, and who had
extended protection to the loyal troops of my colour.  But this
protection served no end.  The republic proclaimed the general liberty
of the blacks.  An unerring voice told me that my allegiance was
thenceforward due to the republic.  The blacks in their new condition
wanted a leader.  They chose me to lead them--to be the chief predicted
by Raynal, as General Laveaux declared.  Inspired by this call, I
entered into the service of France.  The services that I have rendered
prove that it was indeed the voice of God that called me.  Why do I tell
you this?--Because I owe an account of my life to you?  No, indeed!--I
tell you all this that you may render my account to the First Consul,
whom, it appears, I cannot reach by letter.  I charge you, by your
fidelity to the mother-country, to repeat to Bonaparte what I have
said."

"You could do it more accurately and forcibly yourself," observed
Hedouville.  "Let me advise that you go instead of me."

"You know," replied Toussaint, "who it was that said that I am the
Bonaparte of Saint Domingo, and that the colony could not exist without
me.  It was your brother functionaries who said it; and never did they
say anything more true."

The naval captain, Meronet, observed that his ship, now in the roads,
happened to be that which had conveyed the Commissary; and that it would
greatly flatter him, after having brought out Commissary Hedouville, to
carry back General Toussaint L'Ouverture.

"Your ship, sir," replied Toussaint, "will not contain a man like me--a
man laden with the destinies of a race."

"But you speak of the burden of your office," observed one of the aides.
"It must be great; and all men need occasional repose.  Suppose you
retire to France for an interval of repose?"

"Perhaps I may," replied Toussaint, "when this shrub," pointing to the
sucker of a logwood tree, "shall be large enough to make a ship to take
me there."

"You could devolve your cares upon your friend Raymond, General, if you
do not wish fully to trust the whites.  Be persuaded to visit your
brother in destiny and glory, as you call Bonaparte."

"Raymond is my friend, as you say, and a good man; but he is not called
to be arbiter of the fate of the colony.  See!  Here are your
messengers, Commissary."

The officers entered from the barracks, with news that the plain was
really in a state of commotion, and that no adequate defences appeared
to be provided by the authorities of the town.

"I charge myself with the defence of the town," said Toussaint.  "Your
part, Commissary, is to sign the new proclamation instantly; and to
prepare to sail for France, with as many persons as desire to accompany
you.  On your promise to do this, I will guarantee the public peace.  In
this case, you incur no further dishonour than that of not understanding
the temper and the affairs of the blacks.  If you refuse to go, I shall
arrest you here, and denounce you to the government of France, as the
cause of the insurrection which will undoubtedly ensue.  You will not
choose to incur this infamy.  Therefore," he continued, turning to
Captain Meronet, "you will have the goodness to return to your ship, and
prepare it for the reception of the Commissary.  He will probably join
you in the course of this day."

Again addressing the astonished functionary, he continued, "You shall be
protected to the latest possible moment, for the convenience of making
your arrangements.  When I can protect you no longer, I will cause the
alarm gun on the height behind the barracks to be fired.  At that
signal, you will hasten to the boats, and be gone.  Assure yourself of
my justice, and render me an equal measure at the court of France.
Farewell!"

As he entered Government-house, the officers looked at each other in
consternation.

"What is to be done?" asked more than one.

"It is true enough," said Hedouville, "that neither I nor any one else
understand these people.  The danger is really pressing Delon."

"Most pressing, there is no doubt."

"Then I have done with this mongrel colony; and I am not sorry.  At home
I shall find means to vindicate my honour."

"You mean to depart, then, Commissary?"

"When we hear the alarm gun.  Not sooner.  It is possible that it may be
a mere threat."

"If so, it will be the first mere threat in which this black has been
detected."

"That is true.  He usually acts first, and speaks afterwards.
Gentlemen, we shall have to go.  I must first see about this
proclamation, and discover whether anything else can be done.  If not,
Captain, au revoir!"



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

GO OR STAY?

The Commander-in-chief was not long closeted with Governor Raymond: for
this was a day when minutes were precious.  It was observed that there
was a sudden activity among the messengers of the Governor, among the
soldiers, and among the citizens; and every one felt that the voice of
Toussaint was giving orders in every corner of the town, before he had
yet come forth.  The report spread that Moyse L'Ouverture was come; and
he was soon seen, superintending the placing of cannon in the streets,
and the mustering of soldiers in the squares.  The presence of the young
man inspired an enthusiasm inferior only to that which waited on the
steps of his uncle.  Its influence on Moyse was seen in the fire of his
eye, the quickness of his movements, and the hilarity of his air.  He
appeared to notice every one who cheered, or waved hat or handkerchief
to him, and to overhear all that was said as he passed along.  In one
instance he stopped to reply.

"I little thought," he heard an old negro merchant say to a
neighbour--"I little thought ever to see an Ouverture planting cannon
against his own colour."

"Nor do you see it now, friend," said Moyse.  "The insurgents in the
plain are of all colours--almost as many whites as blacks are
discontented with the Commissary, and--"

"Turn your guns upon the Commissary, then, young soldier!"

"There is no need, friend.  We shall be rid of the Commissary by an
easier method; and these guns will be wheeled home, as harmless as they
came.  My belief is that not a drop of negro blood will be shed; and to
that end do we plant our cannon.  If we tranquillise the whites of the
town, and empty Government-house of the French, the negroes of the plain
will find none but friends when they arrive."

"Oh, ay!  That is your policy, is it?"

"That is L'Ouverture's policy.  Tell it everywhere.  He is the best
friend of the blacks who best makes it known."

The explanation passed from mouth to mouth; and the new proclamation,
signed by Toussaint and Hedouville, from hand to hand.  The proclamation
was posted in the corners of the streets; it was read aloud in the
squares; it was sent, by messengers of every colour, among the
insurgents in the plain.  The effect of this, connected with the report,
which every moment gained strength, that the Commissary was about to
quit the colony was so evident, that Toussaint's wishes seemed likely to
be accomplished.  The insurgents did not, indeed, disband: they had been
too often deceived by the Commissary's bland promises to do that before
they had gained their point: but there was every reason to believe that
they would march upon the town, only to secure the departure of
Hedouville and his adherents, and the fidelity of the government to the
terms of the proclamation.

When Toussaint came forth from his conference with Raymond, Afra and
Euphrosyne were awaiting him in the corridor.  He would have passed them
with a smile; but he saw that Afra was urging Euphrosyne to speak, and
that the blushing Euphrosyne dared not do so.  He therefore stopped to
tell Afra that his daughters had sent their love to her; that she was
going to Pongaudin in a day or two; and that her friends there would be
very glad to see her.

"Am I really going?  Does my father say that I may?"

"He is going too: he will be there before you."

"My poor Euphrosyne, what will you do?" exclaimed Afra.  "This is
Euphrosyne Revel," she continued to Toussaint; "and--"

"Revel!" he said.  "Have not you an aged relative in this town, my
dear?"

"In that room," hastily answered Afra.  "He is very old, and much
alarmed to-day; and he cannot believe that he and Euphrosyne are safe,
even here.  If you will only assure Euphrosyne that there is no danger--
if she could tell him that you say so--"

"I will tell him myself," said Toussaint.  "He is in that apartment, you
say?"

"Oh! but please your Excellency," exclaimed Afra, "he may not like--he
may not wish--Euphrosyne is as much devoted to you as we are, but--"

Toussaint was well aware that Monsieur Revel might not like, would not
wish, to see him, or any black.  Among all the hatreds which had
deformed the colony, none more fierce had existed than that between
Monsieur Revel and the negro race.  He had been a cruel master; hence
his incessant terrors now.  He had been marked out for vengeance at the
time of the revolution, and his family had perished for his crimes; and
hence the detestation in which, as the survivor of these victims, he was
regarded by most who knew the story.  Euphrosyne knew nothing of it; nor
did her young companion.  There was no one to tell them uselessly so
painful a tale; and there was nothing in Monsieur Revel's present
conduct to awaken a suspicion of the truth.  He rarely saw a black: and
the tenderness which lies in some corner of the hardest hearts was by
him lavished upon his only remaining descendant.  Little did she suppose
now, how much better her grandfather was known by Toussaint than by
herself.

"Trust me!" said Toussaint, smiling.  "I will not annoy Monsieur Revel.
I will merely reassure him, and tell him a little good news; and then
leave him to his repose."

"Yes, Afra," interposed Euphrosyne.  "Oh yes, please your Excellency, do
go!  I will tell him you are coming."

She flew along the corridor, and, with joyous smiles, prepared Monsieur
Revel for some great honour and pleasure, when Toussaint entered, and
bowed low, as it had ever been his custom to do before grey hairs.

"I come," said he to the old man, who seemed at a loss whether to rise
or not, but who would not ask his visitor to sit down, "I come to
encourage you to dismiss all fears.  By the resolution of the Commissary
to sail for France this day all further disputes are obviated.  We have
strong hopes that peace will not be disturbed."

"The Commissary going home.  Who, then, is to govern us?  What is to
become of the whites in the colony?"

"I will take care of them.  Those who are unwilling to remain, in the
absence of the Commissary, can depart with him.  There is shipping
enough for more than will wish to go."

Euphrosyne glanced apprehensively at her grandfather, and then said,
"Grandpapa is too old to go upon the sea any more; and I am not afraid
of anything here.  I do not believe there is anything to be afraid of
here; is there?"

"Indeed, I believe not."

"Besides," said Afra, "my father will not allow any harm to happen to
his best friends.  My father--"

"Your father, my dear, will not be here," said Toussaint.  "He is
appointed to the legislature, in the interior.  I protect this town till
a new governor is appointed.  I told you we hoped to see you at
Pongaudin.  You will pass your time there, with my family, while
Monsieur Raymond attends his duties in the legislature.  I go, sir, to
provide for the peace of the town.  If I can be of service to you, you
have only to send to me.  I entreat you to rely upon my protection."

And he went out.

"Oh, grandpapa!" exclaimed Euphrosyne, sighing.

"My dears, I hope I was not rude to him.  I know that he meant kindly by
coming: and I would not be otherwise than civil.  I hope I was not rude
to the Commander-in-chief."

Neither of his companions spoke, to give him comfort on this head.  He
grew angry.  He declared that he did not understand all these changes
and troubles, and he would go out of the way of them.  He would sail
with Hedouville; and so should Euphrosyne, and so should Pierre.  He
knew he should die before they had been a week at sea; but he would not
stay to see everything turned topsy-turvy by the blacks.

Afra gently said that she understood it was Hedouville who had
endeavoured to turn everything topsy-turvy, and those who understood the
affairs of the colony better, who hoped to keep them straight.
Euphrosyne protested that it was impossible to get home, to pack up
their goods: and even if they were at home, there was no time to do it
properly.  When she found all her objections of this class unavailing,
she gravely said that she fully believed what her grandfather had just
declared--that he would die before they had been a week at sea; and
nothing, therefore, should make her consent to go.  A compromise was at
length agreed upon.  Euphrosyne promised to enter the convent, if her
grandfather should desire it: and on this promise, he consented to say
no more about going to sea.

As Toussaint went forth from Monsieur Revel's apartment, he met Monsieur
Pascal, with his portfolio in his hand.

"Monsieur Pascal here already!  I am gratified--I am grateful!" said
Toussaint, grasping his hand.  "You are weary--you must be very weary;
but can you work a little before going to rest?"

"Willingly.  No doubt.  Most willingly."

Toussaint desired that fruit and wine should be sent to the governor's
private room, and that the reports of messengers from the city should be
brought instantly to him there.  Monsieur Pascal and he then sat down
beside a table, with pen, ink, and paper before them.

"Monsieur Pascal," Toussaint began, "the Commissary sails for France
this day, with as many as desire to accompany him.  You know the reasons
which compel me to advise his departure.  You came out as his secretary.
Do you desire to return with him?"

"I do not.  With your permission, I will remain with you."

"With what view?"

"My own satisfaction, and the wish to serve the colony.  My attachment
to yourself is strong.  I also perceive that you govern wisely and well;
and I desire to aid in so important a work."

"Good.  But you are not aware of the danger of attaching yourself thus
exclusively to me.  Till to-day, if I fell, your way to France, your way
in France, was open.  After to-day, it will no longer be so.  I am so
surrounded with dangers, that I can scarcely escape ruin or death.  The
mulattoes conspire against my power and my life.  The blacks, for whom I
have made myself responsible, are yet full of passion, and not to be
relied on in the present infancy of their education.  The French
officials are so many malignant spies--excepting yourself, indeed," he
added, with a smile.  "Bonaparte, who rules everywhere, is surrounded by
our emigrants, who attribute their sufferings to the blacks; and he is
jealous of me.  I would rather say he distrusts me.  Now you see my
position.  I ask no white to share its perils.  If you go with
Hedouville, you shall carry with you my friendly farewell."

"I will stay with you."

"Thank God!  Then we are friends indeed!  Now to business.  In the
pressing affairs of to-day, we must not overlook the future security of
the colony.  The story which Hedouville will tell at home must be met
and illustrated by our statement.  Write so fully to the First Consul as
that he may clearly see that it is to Hedouville's ignorance and
presumption that the present disturbances are owing."

"It is a clear case."

"It is to us.  Make it so to him.  One word first.  Will you undertake
the office of governor of this town?"

"Instead of Raymond?"

"Instead of Raymond.  He is a good man; but I erred in appointing him.
He is fit for deliberation, but not for action.  But for my early
arrival, this town would have been burned to-day, for want of even a
show of defence.  He is setting out now for the legislature, to which I
have appointed him, and where he will be valuable.  Will you assume his
office?"

"By no means.  I desire to remain beside you, and study your mode of
government, before I attempt myself to govern."

"I have no fixed mode of governing.  I merely act as seems to me good at
the time."

"Inspired by a generous love, ever," said Pascal.

"Enough of this.  It would be an advantage to me, and to the colony,
that you should undertake this office.  There is no other white, there
is no mulatto fit for it! and the mulattoes need conciliation.  If they
see the office bestowed on a black, or occupied by me, in the interim
they will feel themselves injured by Raymond's removal.  You see the
advantages of your filling the office."

"I see yet more plainly the disadvantages, unfit as I am.  I cannot
accept it."

"Very well.  While you are writing, I will ascertain how the
provisioning of the ships goes on, and will give you as much time as
possible.  But there is not a moment to lose.  I will return presently
to sign."

Toussaint walked up and down the corridor, receiving reports, and
issuing orders every moment.  He found that the harbour was covered with
boats carrying out hogs, fowls, vegetables, and water, according to his
orders: but no baggage had been sent down from the quarters of the
French officials, though porters had been waiting for two hours past.
Scouts had come in, with news of the approach of the insurgents.  This
information was communicated to Hedouville, with a hint that the ships
were nearly provisioned; but no answer was returned.  Moyse sent word
that the preparations in the town were nearly complete, and the spirit
of the inhabitants improving every hour, if only the Commissary would
make haste and be gone.  Toussaint found the moment was coming for him
to give the word to fire the alarm gun.

"Are the despatches nearly ready?" he asked of Pascal, entering the
secretary's apartment.

"Quite ready for signature," replied Pascal, drying the ink of the last
sheet.

"Excellent!" cried Toussaint, when he had read them.  "True and clear!"

He signed and sealed them, and introduced the officer who was to be
responsible for their delivery, assuring him that he would be welcome
back to the honours which would follow the faithful discharge of his
trust.  He did not forget to request Monsieur Pascal to go to rest.
There might be no rest for either of them this night.

As Euphrosyne sat beside Monsieur Revel, who was sleeping on a couch,
after the fatigues of the morning, old Pierre beckoned her softly out,
sending in Euphrosyne's maid, and saying, as he shut the door, "She will
stay with my master fill he wakes.  Mademoiselle Afra has sent for you,
mademoiselle, to see from the upper gallery what is going on.  The
harbour is so crowded with boats, that they can hardly move; and it is
time they were moving pretty fast; for the battle is beginning at the
other end of the town; and the Commissary is not off yet, though the gun
was fired half-an-hour since.  You heard the gun, mademoiselle?"

"Yes.  I am glad it was only a signal.  You are sure it was only a
signal?"

"So they say everywhere.  This is the way, mademoiselle.  Monsieur
Pascal is up here--the secretary, you know--and Mademoiselle Raymond,
and her gouvernante, and several more, who have nothing to do with the
fighting."

"But I do not want to see any fighting," said Euphrosyne, turning upon
the stairs to descend.  "Tell Mademoiselle Raymond that I cannot bear to
see fighting."

"There is no fighting yet, mademoiselle, indeed: and many say there will
not be any.  Indeed you must see such a fine sight as this.  You can see
the Commander-in-chief galloping about the square, with his two
trompettes at his heels."

Euphrosyne turned again, and ran up to the top, without once stopping.
There she was hastily introduced to Monsieur Pascal, and placed by the
gouvernante where she could see everything.

By this time it had become a question whether the Commissary and his
suite could get away.  They were making every effort to do so; but it
was clear that their road would have been blockaded if the
Commander-in-chief and his trompettes had not ridden round and round the
party of soldiers which escorted them, clearing a passage by the power
of a voice and a presence which always prevailed.  Meantime, a huge body
of people, which filled all the streets in the northern quarter, was
gaining ground, pressing forwards against the peaceable opposition of
the town's-people, and the soldiers, commanded by Moyse.  The clamour of
voices from that quarter was prodigious, but there were no shots.  The
wharves were covered with gentlemen, ladies, children, servants, and
baggage, all being precipitated by degrees into boats, and rowed away,
while more were perpetually arriving.

"Is not this admirable?" said Monsieur Pascal.  "The secret has actually
been kept that the Commissary is on his way to the water side.  See! the
cultivators are pressing on in this direction.  They think he is here.
If they knew where he was, they might catch him.  As it is, I believe he
will escape."

"Oh! are they coming here?  Oh, my poor grandfather!" cried Euphrosyne,
turning very pale.

"Fear nothing," said Afra.  "They will presently learn that there is
nothing to come here for.  Will they not, Monsieur Pascal?"

"No doubt: and if not, there is nothing to fear, I believe.  Not a shot
has been fired yet, but from the alarm gun."

"Oh, how it echoed from the Haut-du-Cap!" cried Afra.  "I wonder what
the cultivators understood by it.  See! my father's barge!  There is
fighting there, surely."

As Hedouville and his suite approached the wharf, the Governor's barge,
which had lain at a little distance from the shore, began to press in,
among the crowd of other boats, at a signal from one of the trompettes.
The other boats, which were taking in terrified women and children,
resisted this movement, and refused, at such a moment, its usual
precedence to the Governor's barge.  There was a hustling, a struggling,
a shrieking, an uproar, so loud as to reach the ears and understandings
of the insurgents.  The word spread that the Commissary was escaping
them.  They broke through their opponents, and began a rush to the
wharves.  Not a few shots were now fired; but the young ladies scarcely
heeded them in the excitement of this decisive moment.

"Oh, they will seize him!  They will tear him in pieces!" cried Afra.

"He cannot--no, he never can get away!" exclaimed Euphrosyne.

"And he gave me the sweetest smile as he was going out!" said the
weeping gouvernante.

"There!  Bravo!  Bravo!" cried Monsieur Pascal; and Pierre echoed
"Bravo!"

"What is it?  What is it?" cried the girls.

"He is safe!  He and his party--they are all safe!  Not in the barge--
that is upset.  You see those two green boats, now pulling off.  They
are there.  They leaped into those boats just in time."

"Oh, look, look! what dreadful confusion!" cried Euphrosyne, covering
her eyes with her hands.

"It is not so sure that they are safe yet," observed Pierre.  "See how
the blacks are pouring into the water!"

"And carrying the ladies and children with them, I fear," said Monsieur
Pascal, gazing anxiously through his glass.

In fact, the negroes had no idea of giving up the pursuit because they
had reached the water.  Hundreds plunged in; and their heads were seen
bobbing about all the surface of the bay.  The rowers, however, pulled
well, and presently left the greater number behind, to find satisfaction
in the coolness of the element.

"There is no great harm done," said Monsieur Pascal, still gazing
through his glass.  "They have picked up two ladies and three children;
and none seem to be missing."

"It is well that you and Monsieur were not there, Euphrosyne," observed
Afra.

Euphrosyne shuddered, and Pierre looked all amazement at the absurdity
of such an idea.

"No fear for us, Mademoiselle," said he.  "See how empty the streets
are, down below.  None but the guard left, within half a mile."

It did indeed appear as if the whole population of the town and plain
was collected on the shores of the bay.  Those who had thrown themselves
into the sea had to wait for a footing on land, unless they chose to
swim round the point--which some of them did.  When at length the crowd
began to move up into the town, it was because the Commander-in-chief
was riding away, after having addressed the people.

"What have you been about, child?" exclaimed Monsieur Revel, an hour
after.  "You are never beside me when I wake."

Euphrosyne did not point out that this was the first time she had failed
to watch his siesta.  She said that she had been seeing the Commissary
set sail.

"What, already!  He is in a great hurry, I think."

"The wind is quite fair, grandpapa.  I suppose that is the reason why he
made all the ships in the harbour sail the same way.  He has carried off
three frigates, and all the shipping in the roads.  The sea is quite
clear, grandpapa.  There is not a single sail in sight, all along, as
far as you can see.  They are all off for France."

"What in the world made him do that?"

"Perhaps we shall hear, some day.  To be sure, he had to carry a good
many people away with him."

"Did many whites go with him?"

"I do not know how many whites.  They say fifteen hundred went
altogether; but many of these were mulattoes; and some few blacks, who
went for a frolic, and will come back again when they have seen France."

"Strange doings!  Strange doings!" sighed the old man.

"And we shall have some glorious doings to-morrow, grandpapa.  There was
a little bustle and struggle when the Commissary went away--I am glad
you were asleep, and did not hear it.  There will be no more--there will
be no riot now, everybody says--the Commander-in-chief has behaved so
finely, and the people are so fond of him.  The danger is all over; and
the town's-people have begged him--the Deliverer, as they call him--to
attend the great church to-morrow, in state.  Te Deum will be sung in
all the churches, and it is to be a great fete-day.  Are you not
pleased?"

"Not at all pleased that Hedouville is gone, and fifteen hundred of his
friends, and all the shipping."

"Well, but we are all at peace now, and everybody satisfied."

"Why are we here, then?  Why am I not at home?"

"We will go home in a day or two.  The streets will be noisy to-night;
and besides, one removal is enough for one day.  Afra will follow her
father after to-morrow--he is gone, you know, this morning--"

"Whose guest am I, then?  If I am the guest of the negro Toussaint--"

"You are the guest of Monsieur Raymond while Afra is here.  When she
sets out, we will go home."

"And shall I have to be swung up to the balcony, and have my brains
dashed out, while all the nuns are staring at me?"

"Oh, no," replied Euphrosyne, laughing.  "There will be nothing then to
prevent your going in your own carriage to your own door.  I am afraid
we shall not find my pretty little humming-birds there.  They will think
I have forgotten them."

"Ay, those humming-birds," said Monsieur Revel, appearing to forget all
his troubles.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

DREAMING AWAKE.

Though the peace of the town was now considered secure, there was little
less bustle throughout the day and night than there had been in the
morning.  The cultivators were all gone home.  They poured out of the
town almost as fast as they had poured into it, happy to have attained
their object, in the defeat of the French authorities, and to be
returning without the loss or punishment of a man.  As they attained the
height behind which they would lose sight of the sea, they turned for
one more view of the empty bay, and of the fleet, now disappearing on
the horizon.  They gave three cheers; and this was the last that was
heard of them, except by such as met them in the plain, where they sang,
as they walked, the words of their chief's proclamation.  In negro
fashion, they had set it to music; and very well it sounded, when sung
from the heart.

In the town, the soldiers were busy removing the guns, and all signs of
warfare, and the inhabitants in preparing for the fete of to-morrow.
During the night, the hurry of footsteps never ceased--so many of the
citizens were going out into the country, and returning with blossoming
shrubs to adorn the churches, and flowers with which to strew the path
of the Deliverer.  Under cover of these zealous preparations did
discontent, like a serpent under the blossoms of the meadow, prepare to
fix its poisonous tooth.  There were men abroad in the streets who
looked upon these preparations for rejoicing with a determination that
the rejoicings should never take place.

The business of this arduous day being finished, Toussaint had retired
early to rest, in a chamber in the south wing of Government-house--the
part which had been inhabited by the French functionaries.  He would
allow no one to occupy any apartments of the north wing (that which was
appropriated to the governor of the town), while the daughter of the
late governor and her guests remained there.  His secretary, who had
taken some hours' rest before, was busy writing, after midnight, in an
apartment in the same wing.  He was preparing dispatches for the Central
Assembly, now sitting in the interior.

Monsieur Pascal was far from being on good terms with himself this
night.  If, in the morning, he had doubted his capacity for being
governor of the town, he this night doubted his qualifications for the
office of secretary, which he had thus far filled to his own
satisfaction.  To-night he could not command his ideas--he could not fix
his attention.  He wrote a paragraph, and then he dreamed; he planned a
proposition, and then he forgot it again; and, in despair, started up to
pace the floor, and disperse intrusive thoughts by exercise.  These
thoughts would intrude again, however; and he found himself listlessly
watching through the window a waving treetop, or a sinking star, while
his pen dried in his hand.

These intrusive ideas were of Afra.  He had never thought of love, in
regard to himself, even enough to despise it, or to resolve against it:
and the time was apparently come when love was to revenge himself for
this neglect.  Perhaps it was this idea, as much as the attractions of
Afra herself, that haunted him to-night.  He felt that his hour was
come; that he was henceforth, like other men, to be divided between two
pursuits, to be dependent upon another for his tranquillity.  He felt
already that he could never again see Mademoiselle Raymond, or hear of
her, without emotion.  He had never understood love at first sight, and
had hardly believed in it:--he now did not understand it; but he could
not but believe in it.  He felt actually haunted.  Every breath of air
that whispered in the window brought her voice.  Everything that moved
in the night breeze made him start as if it was herself.  At last, in
despair about his task, which must be finished before dawn, he covered
his eyes with his hands, as he leaned back in his chair, resolving not
to move till he had ascertained what it was that he wanted to write
next.

A slight noise in the direction of the door, however, made him look up;
and he saw, advancing towards the light, no other than Afra herself.  It
was no wonder that he sat upright in his chair, his pale face paler than
usual.  In another moment, however, he blushed to the temples on hearing
a suppressed laugh from some one who stood behind Afra, and who said,
after some vain attempts to speak for laughing--

"M.  Pascal takes us for ghosts."

"By no means, Mademoiselle Revel.  Ghosts do not wrap themselves in
shawls from the night air, I believe; nor come in at the door when the
shorter way is through the wall; or take a seat when asked, as I hope
you will do."  And he placed chairs as he spoke.

"We might have frightened you delightfully if we could have looked half
as ghost-like as you did, the first moment you saw us.  Perhaps it was
the lamp--"

"Hush!  Euphrosyne," said Afra.  "You speak too loud, and waste time.
Remember what we came for.  Monsieur Pascal," she said, in a low voice,
leaning towards him over the table, and refusing to sit down, "how is
L'Ouverture guarded?"

"Not at all, I believe.  Why?"

The girls made a gesture of terror.  Both said eagerly--

"He is in great danger; indeed, indeed he is."

"Where are the soldiers?" asked Euphrosyne.  "Do send for them directly:
and ask him to lock himself up in the safest place till they come."

"Tell me what you mean, and then--"

"I think he is in danger, now the white rulers are gone, from the people
of my colour," said Afra: "and I fear, this very night."

"Do you mean that they intend to murder him?"

"Perhaps so.  Perhaps to seize him, and send him to Rigaud;--and that
will be only a slower murder."

"But how--"

"I will tell you.  Euphrosyne and I sat rather late behind the
jalousies, in the dark, to see the people bring in flowers and fruit
from the country for the morning.  I saw many mulattoes in the walk; but
none of them had fruit or flowers.  I watched them.  I know their ways,
their countenances, and their gestures.  I saw they were gloomy and
angry; and I found out that it is with L'Ouverture.  They were plotting
mischief, I am certain."

"But why so suddenly?--why to-night?"

"So we thought at first; and we went to rest, intending to tell
L'Ouverture to-morrow.  But the more we thought and talked about it, the
more uneasy we grew.  We were afraid to go to sleep without telling some
one in this wing; so we stole along the corridors in the dark, and saw
that there was a light in this library, and ventured to look in, hoping
it might be L'Ouverture himself."

"He is asleep in a room near.  I will waken him.  You are not afraid to
stay here a few moments, while I am gone?"

"Oh, no."

"He may wish to question you himself."

"Tell him," said Afra, speaking rapidly, "that the mulattoes are jealous
of him, because they think he wants to have all the power in his own
hands.  They say--`There go the ships!  There are no whites in power
now.  So much the better!  But here is Raymond displaced, and
L'Ouverture is all in all.  We shall have every office filled with
blacks; and the only chance for our degraded colour is in the fields or
in the removal of this black.'  Tell him this: but oh! be sure you tell
him my father and I do not agree in one word of it."

"She would do anything in the world to save him," said Euphrosyne.

"You are dear as a daughter to him," said Monsieur Pascal, with eyes of
love, as he left them.

"I wish I was sure of that," said Afra.  "But what can be done,
Euphrosyne?  He has no guard!  And my father is not here, nor any one to
help us!  I fancy every moment I hear them coming."

"I am not much afraid," said Euphrosyne, her teeth chattering all the
while.  "He is so powerful!  He never seems to want anybody to protect--
scarcely to help him."

"But asleep!  After midnight!  Think of it!  If they should seize him
and bind him before he is awake!"

This fear was removed by his appearance, dressed, and like himself.  He
smiled at the girls, offered them each an arm, and said he had a sight
to show them, if they would look at it without speaking.  He led them in
the dark to a window, whence they looked down upon a courtyard, which
was full of soldiers, awake and armed.  In another moment, Toussaint was
conducting them along the corridors, towards their own apartments, "You
knew!" whispered Afra.  "We need not have come.  I believe you always
know everything."

"I suspected a plan to prevent the publishing of the amnesty to-morrow,
and the filling up the offices of the colony with blacks.  I suspected,
but was not certain.  Your intelligence has confirmed me."

"What will happen?" asked Euphrosyne, trembling.  "Will anybody be
killed?"

"Not to-night, I trust.  You may go to rest secure that no blood will be
spilled to-night; and to-morrow, you know, is a holy-day.  If you hear a
step in the corridor of this your wing, do not be alarmed.  I am going
to send one of my own guard."

He left them at their door, after standing to hear them fasten it
inside.

The girls kept awake as long as they could, calling each other's
attention to every fancied noise.  They could be sure of nothing,
however, but of the march of the sentinel along the corridor.  They both
slept at last, and were wakened in broad daylight by the gouvernante,
who entered in great trepidation, to say that there had been a plot
against the Commander-in-chief;--that the window of his chamber had been
entered at two o'clock by a party of mulattoes, who had all been seized
by L'Ouverture's soldiers.  How it came to end so--how soldiers enough
happened to be at hand at the right moment--how it was all done without
fighting, without noise enough even to break her rest (and she always
know if anybody stirred)--the gouvernante could not tell.  All she knew
was, that L'Ouverture was the most considerate creature in the world.
As soon as the eleven mulattoes who had been taken were put into
confinement, L'Ouverture had sent one of his own guards into her
corridor to prevent her being alarmed for herself and her young charge.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE GIFT AT THE ALTAR.

Poor Euphrosyne!  She was not allowed by her grandfather to go to church
this day.  Monsieur Revel insisted upon it that it would be an act of
treason for one of the French race to attend a thanksgiving for having
got rid of the French authorities.  In vain did Euphrosyne represent
that the thanksgiving was for something very different--for the
deliverance of the town and district from war--for the security of white
and black inhabitants alike.--Neither Monsieur Revel nor Pierre would
hear a word of this.  They were quite sure that the faster the dark
people thronged to the churches to rejoice, the more fervently should
the whites mourn and pray for mercy at home.  Her grandfather said
Pierre should escort her to the chapel of the convent, where she might
go without being seen.  That service was a fitting one for her to
attend; and he would spare her for a couple of hours, to be so spent,
under the eye of the abbess.  This, however, Euphrosyne declined.  She
preferred remaining to see from behind the blind what went on in the
Jesuits' Walk--to see Afra and her gouvernante dressed for church--to
see L'Ouverture set forth--to see the soldiers follow, marching in a
compact body, each man carrying a green bough, in token of rejoicing.
She did not know, any more than the crowd that lined the way, that in
the centre of this body of military, and concealed by the green boughs,
were the eleven mulatto prisoners.

Afra entered quickly to say farewell; and, lifting her veil hastily, she
said, "Kiss me, and let me go.  L'Ouverture says he shall take us into
church himself, as my father is not here.  Mademoiselle and I are going
with Madame Ducie and her daughters; and L'Ouverture will wait for us at
the church, and lead us in.  Poor Euphrosyne!  I wish you were going!"

"I never cared for anything half so much.  Will you really walk all
through the church to your seat on his arm?  And I should have been on
the other side, if grandpapa would have let me go!  Do not stay, dear.
Tell me all about it when you come back."

"I must be gone.  There will not be standing-room for one person to
spare.  You know every one of my colour in Cap is ordered to be in the
church as the hour strikes.  Farewell."

Euphrosyne had thought she had heard the crier publish this order; and
presently Pierre brought her the handbill to the same effect, which was
passing from hand to hand.  If Euphrosyne and Pierre speculated
curiously on what this order might mean, what must have been the anxiety
of the mulattoes!  Most of them had known of the conspiracy of the day
before: all had now heard of its failure.  All were anxious to attend
the church, as staying away would amount to a confession of disloyalty;
but there was not one of them who did not go with fear and trembling,
wishing that the day was over, though dreading what it might bring
forth.

As Afra, and the ladies who attended her, drew near the great church,
they found the streets absolutely empty.  Loyalty, and the desire to
appear loyal, had carried the entire population to the churches; and the
houses appeared deserted by all but an aged or sick person, here and
there, who looked forth upon the activity he could not share.  In the
centre of the area before the church were piled the arms of the garrison
and of Toussaint's troops; and on the top of the pile of arms lay the
fetters which had just been removed from the mulatto conspirators.
L'Ouverture, in giving his orders to this effect, had said that arms
should be laid aside in the act of thanksgiving for peace; and bonds,
while giving thanks for liberty.  When, at length, he gave the signal
for the military to enter the church after him, some of the officers
looked earnestly to him for orders that a guard might be left with the
arms.  He understood their thoughts, and replied, with a smile:--

"Let every one enter to worship: the arms are safe.  There is no one
near who would employ them against us."

Afra's heart beat, and she did not forget Euphrosyne, as she was led to
her seat by L'Ouverture, at whose entrance there was a half-suppressed
murmur throughout the vast congregation--a murmur which sank into
silence at the first breathing of solemn music from the choir.  The
signs of gratulation for the escape of the Deliverer, first heard in the
streets, and now witnessed amidst the worshipping crowd, were too much
for the self-command of the conspirators.  Their attitude became every
moment more downcast--their countenances more sullen and wretched.  They
had a strong impression that their execution was to seal the
thanksgivings of this day; and in every allusion to deliverance from
danger, privy conspiracy, and rebellion, they believed that they read
their own doom.  A tempting idea of escape now and then crossed the
imagination of one or other of them.  As they sat with their heads upon
their breasts, the thought that they were unfettered, and their guards
unarmed, made them eager to glance around, and see if there was hope;
but whenever they raised their eyes, and whichever way they looked, they
encountered eyes seemingly as numerous as the stars of heaven--as many,
as penetrating, but not so calm.  Eyes which shone with love of
L'Ouverture could not look benignly on those who would have kidnapped or
murdered him.  Nor did the eleven meet with any visible sympathy from
the multitude of their own colour who were present.  The greater number
looked studiously another way, in order to appear to have no connection
with them; and the countenances which were turned towards them wore a
strong expression of displeasure, as towards men who had ruined the last
hopes of a cause.  The wretched men gave themselves up, at length, to
counting the minutes till the service should be over, and they should be
once more retired from this myriad of eyes, when they were roused by a
singular suspension of the service.

After the prayer for divine pardon, ensuing upon mutual forgiveness,
L'Ouverture arose from his knees, stepped from his place, and stood
before the altar.  He spoke, while all rose to hear.

"In this place," said he, "brethren should be reconciled, or their
offering of thanksgiving will not be pure.  Will all who feel enmity
towards me come to this holy spot, and exchange forgiveness?"

He looked towards the conspirators, who gazed upon him with eager eyes,
but did not move.  They could not believe that tills appeal was intended
for them, till he beckoned to them.  They advanced with hesitating
steps--first one or two--then several--then all; and as they drew nearer
they rushed upon him, some kissing his hand, others kneeling and
embracing his knees.  Bidding these arise, he said gently, but in a
voice so penetrating that it was heard in the farthest recess of the
building, "I must have offended you, since you have conspired against
me; and you are very guilty towards me and your country.  May He who
looks down with pity on the shameful strifes of men, bear witness to our
hearty forgiveness of each other!  Can you with truth say Amen?--If not
yet with truth, say it not till you have heard me."

"Amen!" they cried, with a cry which was echoed first from the roof of
the church, and then by every voice beneath it which was not choked with
sobs.

"If you had had patience with me," said Toussaint, "you would have found
that I am above partiality in regard to race.  When I find men of your
colour fit for office, they shall be promoted to office as my friend
Raymond was.  I entreat you henceforth to give me time; to watch me,
though closely, generously; and if I fail to satisfy you, to make your
complaints to myself.  As for the past, let it be forgotten by all.  Go
to your homes, and I trust no one will ever speak to you of this day.
As for myself, I must go where I am wanted.  It may be that I shall have
to punish the leader of your colour, if he persists in disturbing the
peace of the colony.  But fear not that, if you do not share in his
offences, I shall impute them to you.  It is true that, however far-off,
my eye will be upon you, and my arm stretched out over you; but as long
as you are faithful, this my presence will be, your protection.  After
the blessing, the amnesty I have promised will be read.  This, my act of
forgiveness, is sincere.  Show that yours is so, I entreat, by
cherishing the peace of the colony.  By the sanctity of the place on
which we stand, let there be peace among us all, and mutual forgiveness
for all time to come!"

"Amen!" again resounded, louder than the most joyous strain of the choir
that ever rang through the building.

L'Ouverture went back to his place, surrounded by the eleven released
men, for whom room was made round his person by those who could best
read his eye.  After the priest had given the blessing, the amnesty was
road which declared pardon for all political offences, and all personal
offences against the Commander-in-chief, up to that hour.  The moment it
was concluded, those who had arrived at the church in custody, left it
in freedom, though in shame, and sped away to their several homes, as if
the death they had anticipated were at their heels.  There they told
their wonderful tale to their families, turning the desolation of wives
and children into joy almost too great to be believed.

Afra found, to her satisfaction, that no one had entered to tell
Euphrosyne of this act of L'Ouverture.  Euphrosyne had been full of
perplexity about the mulattoes--almost disposed to think that the whole
race must have suddenly gone mad.  She had seen them two hours before,
flocking to church with faces whose gloom contrasted strangely with
their numbers, their holiday dresses, and their eagerness to be in time
to secure admittance.  She now saw them return, as if intoxicated with
joy, cheering, the whole length of the walk, and crying with an
enthusiasm, if possible, surpassing that of the blacks, "Long live the
Deliverer!"



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

THE COUNCIL OF FIVE.

A council was held one morning, soon after the events just related,
whose aspect would have perplexed an old colonist, if he could have
looked forward in vision to that day.  In a shady apartment of
Toussaint's house at Pongaudin sat five men, in whose hands lay the
fortunes of the colony; and only one of these men was a white.

The five came to report well to one another of the fortunes of the
colony.  Never, in the old days, could any set of counsellors have been
gathered together, who could have brought with them such proofs of the
welfare and comfort of every class of inhabitants.  In former times the
colonial legislators were wont to congratulate the Assembly on the good
working of their system; which meant that the negroes were quiet, the
mulattoes kept under, and the crops promising; but under this "good
working" there were the heart-burnings of the men of colour, the woes
and the depravity of the slaves, and the domestic fears and discomforts
of the masters, arising from this depravity.  Now, when there was no
oppression and no slavery, the simple system of justice was truly
"working well"; not only in the prospect of the crops, and the external
quiet of the proprietors, but in the hearts and heads of every class of
men--of perhaps every family in the island.

Jacques Dessalines had arrived from Saint Marc, near which his estate
lay.  He had to tell how the handsome crescent of freestone houses
behind the quay was extending--how busy were the wharves--how the
store-houses were overflowing--how the sea was covered with
merchant-ships--and how the cheerful hum of prosperous industry was
heard the long day through.

Henri Christophe had come from the city of Saint Domingo, quite through
the interior of the island.  He had to tell how the reinstated whites
paid him honour as he passed, on account of his friendship with
L'Ouverture; how the voice of song went up from the green valleys, and
from the cottage door; how the glorious Artibonite rolled its full tide
round the base of mountains which no longer harboured the runaway or the
thief, and through, plains adorned with plenty, and smiling with peace.

Monsieur Raymond arrived from the sittings of the Central Assembly.
What good things he had to report will presently be seen.

Toussaint, with Monsieur Pascal, had arrived from Cap, where all was at
present quiet, and where he had done the best he could, as he believed,
by making Moyse a general, and leaving him in charge of the town and
district, till a person could be found fit for the difficult and most
anxious office of Governor of Cap.  The two most doubtful points of the
colony were Port-au-Prince and Cap Francais.  They had been the great
battle-grounds of races; they were the refuge of the discontented
whites; and they were open to the operations of factious people from
France.  L'Ouverture was never sure of the peace and quiet of Cap, as
long as French ships came and went; but there was peace in the town at
the present moment; and he had left that peace in the temporary charge
of one who had done much, under his eye, to establish it--who had shown
no small energy and talent, and who had every inducement that could be
conceived to go through his brief task well.  Great had been Toussaint's
satisfaction in offering to Moyse this honourable opportunity of
distinguishing himself; and much had he enjoyed the anticipation of
telling Genifrede of this fulfilment of her lover's ambition, and of the
near approach of their union, in consequence.  It is true, he had been
disappointed by Genifrede's receiving this news with a shudder, and by
none but forced smiles having been seen from her since; but he trusted
that this was only a fit of apprehension, natural to one who loved so
passionately, and that it would but enhance the bliss that was to
succeed.

If, as usual, L'Ouverture had to report the situation of Cap Francais as
precarious, he brought good tidings of the South.  An express had met
him on his journey homewards, with news of the total defeat of the
insurgent mulattoes by Vincent.  Rigaud had surrendered his designs, and
had actually sailed, with his principal officers, for France.  Thus was
the last torch of war extinguished in the colony, and matters of
peaceful policy alone lay before this Council of Five.

The announcement of the entire pacification of the island was the first
made by L'Ouverture, when his friends and counsellors looked eagerly to
him for what he should say.

"Vincent is a fine fellow," said Dessalines, "and a credit to his
colour."

"He has been in the most pressing danger," observed Toussaint.  "God
willed that he should escape, when escape appeared impossible."

"What is to be done now with these cowardly devils of mulattoes?" asked
Dessalines.

Monsieur Pascal glanced at Raymond, to see how he bore this.  Raymond
chanced to meet his eye, and replied to the glance.

"You will not take me for a cowardly mulatto, Monsieur Pascal, if I do
not resent Dessaline's words.  He is speaking of the rebels, not of the
many mulattoes who, like myself, disapprove and despise all such
jealousy of race as leads to the barbarism of aggressive war."

"Yet," said Christophe, "I wish that we should all avoid such language
as provokes jealousy of race."

"In council one must speak plainly," replied Dessalines.  "I hope
Monsieur Pascal agrees with me; for doubtless certain affairs of the
whites will be in question, with regard to which they may be uncivilly
spoken of.  I was going to say, for instance (what L'Ouverture's
secretary ought to be able to bear), that if we wish this state of peace
to last, we must studiously keep the whites down--exclude them from all
situations of power and trust.  You all know that, in my opinion, they
ought every one to have been done with some time ago.  As that was not
effected, the next best, policy is to let them die out.  One may compute
pretty well the time that this will take.  If nothing better remains for
them here than to live upon their estates, without a chance of
distinction, or of employment in public affairs, they will grow tired of
the colony; the next generation, at farthest, will be glad to sell their
property, and go home; and we shall be rid of them."

"By that time, Jacques," said Toussaint, "you and I may find ourselves
again in the midst of them, in a place whence we cannot drive them out."

Dessalines' countenance told, as well as words could have done, that
heaven would be no heaven to him if the spirits of white men were there.
Toussaint well understood it, and resumed, "Better begin here what may
be our work there--draw closer, and learn from them the wisdom by which
they have been the masters of the world: while they may learn from us,
if they will, forgiveness of injuries."

"I am sick of hearing all that, Toussaint.  It is for ever in your
mouth."

"Because it is for ever in my heart.  You will hear it from me, Jacques,
till I see that there is no occasion to say it more.  As to Vincent, I
propose to keep him, in token of honour, near my person; and to request
the Central Assembly to decree to him an estate of such value as they
shall think proper, to be purchased from the public treasury."

"That is, supposing he should desire to remain among us," observed
Christophe; "but Vincent is fond of France."

"Then his estate shall be in France, Henri.  Our friend Raymond will
charge himself with this business in the Assembly."

"If I bring it forward in the form of a message from yourself," replied
Raymond, "there is no doubt of its being carried by acclamation.  The
finances of the colony are flourishing, and the attachment of the
Assembly to your person most enthusiastic."

"What of the finances?" asked Toussaint.

Raymond gave from his notes a statement which showed that both the
customs' duties and internal taxes had been productive beyond all
expectation; that the merchant-ships of almost every nation had visited
the ports; and that, after defraying the expenses of the war now closed,
there would be a surplus sufficient for the extension of the schools and
the formation of some new roads.

"What of the attachment of the Assembly to L'Ouverture's person?" asked
Christophe.

"Every member of it sees that the prosperity of the island is the
consequence of the vigorous prosecution of his system; and that there is
no security but in its unquestioned continuance.  The Commander-in-chief
having been thus proved as eminently fitted for civil as for military
government, the Assembly proposes to constitute him president of the
colony for life, with power to choose his successor, and to appoint to
all offices."

All eyes were now fixed upon Toussaint.  He observed that a dark cloud
must have hidden France from the eyes of the Assembly, when they framed
this proposition of independent sovereignty.

Raymond had no doubt that France would agree to have her colony governed
in the best possible manner.  If there should be a difficulty about the
title of president, that of governor might be substituted.  The power
being the same, there need not be a quarrel about the title.  The
Assembly would yield that point--probably the only one that France would
dispute.

Monsieur Pascal believed that France would never yield the power of
appointing to offices of importance for life; still less that of
choosing a successor.

"France ought not to yield such powers," said Toussaint; "and the
Assembly ought not to bring upon me (representative as I am of my race)
the imputation of a personal ambition which I abjure and despise.  I
could tell the Assembly that, if I had chosen to stoop under the yoke of
personal ambition, I might have been sovereign of this island without
waiting for their call.  Yes," he continued, in answer to the inquiring
looks of his friends, "I have in my possession a treaty proposed to me
by the British Government, in which the English offer to make me king of
this island--in such case to be called by its ancient name of Hayti--on
condition of exclusive commerce."

"Is it even so?" exclaimed Christophe.

"Even so, Henri.  The English believed that I had acted on my own
account; and that we, the children of France, should turn against our
mother in the day of her perplexity, and join hands with her foes."

"Any other man would have done it," said Monsieur Pascal.

"No, Pascal; no man who was appointed, like me, to redeem his race."

"How do you consider that you will injure your race by accepting the
proposal of the Assembly?" asked Monsieur Pascal.  "I understand why you
would accept nothing from the hands of the English; and also why you
would hesitate to assume a power which the government at home would
doubtless disallow.  But how would your race be injured by honours paid
to you?"

"You are my friend," replied Toussaint.  "Is it possible that you can
fail to understand?"

"I call myself your friend too," said Dessalines, "and I declare I can
comprehend nothing of it."

"Your prejudices on one point are strong, Jacques; and prejudice is
blind.  Monsieur Pascal is singularly unprejudiced: and therefore I
believed that he would understand me."

"Perhaps I do: but I wish to hear your reasons from yourself."

"Particularly," interposed Raymond, "as to whether you believe the
blacks (who are, we know, your first object) would be more benefited by
continued connection with France or by independence.  I believe Monsieur
Pascal is unprejudiced enough to bear the discussion of even this
point."

"It is that which I wish to understand clearly," observed Monsieur
Pascal.

"Whether, if I believed my race would be benefited by the independence
of this island, I could answer it to my conscience to separate from
France," said Toussaint, "we need not decide, as I am convinced that,
amidst all the errors committed under the orders of government, it is
best for us to remain in connection with France.  The civilisation of
the whites is the greatest educational advantage we could enjoy.  Yes,
Jacques; and the more we despise it, the more we prove that we need it.
The next great reason for remaining faithful is that we owe it to the
white inhabitants of the colony not to deprive them of their connection
with Paris, on the one hand, nor of their liberty to live and prosper
here, on the other.  As regards my own peculiar position, I feel that my
first duty is to present an example of reverence and affection for my
country, and not of a selfish ambition.  I may have other personal
reasons also, tending to the same conclusion."

"Some favourite passages in Epictetus, perhaps, or in the Bible," said
Jacques: "some reasons confirmed by the whispers of the priests.
Nothing short of priestly influence could blind you to such an
opportunity as we now have of disembarrassing ourselves of the whites
for ever."

"Patience, Jacques!" said Toussaint, smiling.

"I believe," said Christophe, "that there is neither book nor priest in
the case.  I believe that it is your peculiar feeling towards Bonaparte,
Toussaint, which strengthens your affection for France."

Christophe saw, by a glance at his friend's countenance, that he was
right.

"I should act as you do," Henri continued, "if I were certain of a full
and generous reciprocity of feeling on the part of the government and of
Bonaparte.  But I have no such confidence."

"Hear him!" cried Dessalines and Raymond.

"You were not wont to doubt Bonaparte, Henri," observed Toussaint.

"Because, till of late, there was no reason to doubt him.  I still
believe that he was in earnest at the outset, in his professed desire to
serve France for the sake of France, and not for his own.  But I believe
that he has a head less strong than yours; that we shall see him
transformed from the pacificator into the aggressor--that, instead of
waiting upon his pleasure, we may have to guard against injury from
him."

"These words from the generous Henri," said Toussaint, "are portentous."

"I may be wrong, Toussaint.  God grant, for the sake of the liberties of
the world, that I may be proved mistaken!  But, in the hour of choice
between your sovereignty and continued dependence, you must not suppose
the sympathy between the First of the Whites and the First of the Blacks
to be greater than it is."

Toussaint could have told how Henri's words only confirmed misgivings as
to the public virtues of Bonaparte, which had long troubled his secret
soul.

"Are you willing," he asked of Monsieur Pascal, "to tell us your
anticipations as to the career of the First Consul?  Do not speak, if
you prefer to be silent."

"I cannot predict confidently," replied Pascal; "but I should not be
surprised if we see Bonaparte unable to resist the offer of sovereignty.
Once crowned, and feeling himself still compelled to speak incessantly
of the good of his country, his views of good will become debased.  He
will invest France with military glory, and sink into ruin by becoming a
conqueror;--a vulgar destiny, in this age--a destiny which Alexander
himself would probably scorn, if now born again into the world."

"Alas! my poor blacks, if this be indeed Bonaparte!" exclaimed
Toussaint.  "Their supreme need is of peace; and they may become the
subjects of a conqueror."

"And happy if they be no worse than subjects," said Christophe.

"If," said Toussaint, "Bonaparte respects the liberties of the French no
more than to reduce them from being a nation to being an army, he will
not respect the liberties of the blacks, and will endeavour to make them
once more slaves."

"Ah! you see!" exclaimed Dessalines.

"I neither see nor believe, Jacques.  We are only speculating.  I will
be thoroughly faithful to my allegiance, till Bonaparte is
unquestionably unfaithful to the principles by which he rose.  At the
moment, however, when he lifts his finger in menace of the liberties of
the blacks, I will declare myself the Champion of Saint Domingo;--not,
however, through the offices of the English, but by the desire of those
whom I govern."

"Say King of Hayti," exclaimed Christophe.  "This island was Hayti, when
it lay blooming in the midst of the ocean, fresh from the will of God,
thronged with gentle beings who had never lifted up a hand against each
other.  It was Hayti when it received, as into a paradise, the first
whites who came into our hemisphere, and who saw in our valleys and
plains the Eden of the Scripture.  It became Saint Domingo when vice
crept into it, and oppression turned its music into sighs, and violence
laid it waste with famine and the sword.  While the blacks and whites
yet hate each other, let it be still Saint Domingo: but when you
withdraw us from jealousy and bloodshed, let it again be Hayti.  While
it holds its conquered name there will be heart-burnings.  If it became
our own Hayti, we might not only forgive, but forget.  It would be a
noble lot to be King of Hayti!"

"If so ordained, Henri.  We must wait till it be so.  My present clear
duty is to cultivate peace, and the friendship of the whites.  They must
have their due from us, from Bonaparte himself, to the youngest infant
in Cap.  You may trust me, however, that from the hour that there is a
whisper about slavery in the lightest of Bonaparte's dreams, I will
consent to be called by whatever name can best defend our race."

"It will be too late then," said Dessalines.  "Why wait till Bonaparte
tells you his dreams?  We know, without being told, that all the dreams
of all whites are of our slavery."

"You are wrong, Jacques.  That is no more true of all whites, than it is
true of all blacks that they hate the whites as you do."

"You will find too late that I am not wrong," said Jacques.  "Remember,
in the day of our ruin, that my timely advice to you was to send for
your sons from Paris, and then avow yourself King of Saint Domingo--or
of Hayti, if you like that name better.  To me that name tells of
another coloured race, whom the whites wantonly oppressed and destroyed.
One cannot traverse the island without hearing the ghosts of those poor
Indians, from every wood and every hill, calling to us for vengeance on
their conquerors."

"Take care how you heed those voices, Dessalines," said Christophe.
"They are not the voices of the gentle Indians that you hear; for the
whites who injured them are long ago gone to judgment."

"And if they were still in the midst of us," said Toussaint, "vengeance
is not ours.  Jacques knows that my maxim in the field--my order, which
may not be transgressed--is, No retaliation!  I will have the same rule
obeyed in my council-chamber, as we all, I trust, observe it in our
prayers.  Jacques, you have not now to learn my principle and my
command--no retaliation.  Have you ever known it infringed, since the
hour when you found me at Breda, and made me your chief?"

"Never."

"Nor shall you while I am obeyed.  If the hour for defence comes we
shall be ready.  Till then we owe allegiance."

"You will find it too late," Dessalines said, once more.

"The Assembly," said Toussaint to Raymond, "will withdraw their
proposition regarding my being President of this island.  I have all
needful power as Commander-in-chief of the colony."

"They have already published their request," said Raymond; "which I do
not regret, because--"

"I regret it much," said Toussaint.  "It will incense France."

"I do not regret it," pursued Raymond, "because it renders necessary the
publication of your refusal, which cannot but satisfy France."

"On the point of Toussaint's supposed ambition it may satisfy France,"
observed Christophe.  "But if Bonaparte be jealous of the influence of
the First of the Blacks, this homage of the Assembly will not abate his
jealousy."

"Have you more messages for us, Raymond?--No.  Then Monsieur Pascal and
I will examine these reports, and prepare my replies.  This our little
council is memorable, friends, for being the first in which we could
report of the entire pacification of the colony.  May it be only the
first of many!  My friends, our council is ended."



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

LEISURE FOR ONCE.

Precious to the statesman are the moments he can snatch for the common
pleasures which are strewed over the earth--meant, apparently, for the
perpetual enjoyment of all its inhabitants.  The child gathers flowers
in the meadow, or runs up and down a green bank, or looks for birds'
nests every spring day.  The boy and girl hear the lark in the field and
the linnet in the wood, as a matter of course: they walk beside the
growing corn, and pass beneath the rookery, and feel nothing of its
being a privilege.  The sailor beholds the stars every bright night of
the year, and is familiar with the thousand hues of the changing sea.
The soldier on his march sees the sun rise and set on mountain and
valley, plain and forest.  The citizen, pent up in the centre of a
wide-built town, has his hour for play with his little ones, his
evenings for his wife and his friends.  But for the statesman, none of
these are the pleasures of every day.  Week after week, month after
month, he can have no eyes for the freshness of nature, no leisure for
small affairs, or for talk about things which cannot be called affairs
at all.  He may gaze at pictures on his walls, and hear music from the
drawing-room, in the brief intervals of his labours; and he may now and
then be taken by surprise by a glimpse of the cool bright stars, or by
the waving of the boughs of some neighbouring tree.  He may be beguiled
by the grace or the freak of some little child, or struck: by some
wandering flower scent in the streets, or some effect of sunlight on the
evening cloud.  But with these few and rare exceptions, he loses sight
of the natural earth, and of its free intercourses, for weeks and months
together; and precious in proportion--precious beyond its utmost
anticipation--are his hours of holiday when at length they come.  He
gazes at the crescent moon hanging above the woods, and at the long
morning shadows on the dewy grass, as if they would vanish before his
eyes.  He is intoxicated with the gurgle of the brook upon the stones,
when he seeks the trout stream with his line and basket.  The whirring
of the wild bird's wing upon the moor, the bursting of the chase from
cover, the creaking of the harvest wain--the song of the vine-dressers--
the laugh of the olive-gatherers--in every land where these sounds are
heard, they make a child once more of the statesman who may for once
have come forth to hear them.  Sweeter still is the leisure hour with
children in the garden or the meadow, and the quiet stroll with wife or
sister in the evening, or the gay excursion during a whole day of
liberty.  If Sunday evenings are sweet to the labourer whose toils
involve but little action of mind, how precious are his rarer holidays
to the state labourer, after the wear and tear of toil like his--after
his daily experience of intense thought, of anxiety, and fear!  In the
path of such should spring the freshest grass, and on their heads should
fall the softest of the moonlight, and the balmiest of the airs of
heaven, if natural rewards are in any proportion to their purchase money
of toil.

The choicest holiday moments of the great negro statesman were those
which he could spend with his wife and children, away from observing
eyes and listening ears.  He was never long pent up in the city, or
detained by affairs within the walls of his palace.  His business lay
abroad, for the most part; and he came and went continually, on
horseback, throughout every part of the island.  Admirable as were his
laws and regulations, and zealously as he was served by his agents of
every description, there was no security for the working of his system
so good as his own frequent presence among the adoring people.  The same
love which made him so powerful abroad interfered with his comfort at
home.  There were persons ever on the watch for a glimpse of him, eager
to catch every word and every look: and the very rarest of his pleasures
was unwitnessed intercourse with his family.

At length, when Hedouville was gone away from one port, and Rigaud from
another--when neither spy nor foe appeared to remain--it seemed to be
time for him, who had given peace and leisure to everybody else, to
enjoy a little of it himself.  He allowed his children, therefore, to
fix a day when he should go with them on a fishing excursion round the
little island of Gonaives, which was a beautiful object from the windows
of the house at Pongaudin, as it lay in the midst of the bay.

The excursion had answered completely.  General Vincent, leaving the
south of the island in a state of perfect tranquillity, had arrived to
enjoy his honours in the presence of L'Ouverture and his family.  Madame
Dessalines had come over from Saint Marc.  As Afra was of the party,
Monsieur Pascal had found it possible to leave his papers for a few
hours.  Toussaint had caught as many fish as if he had been Paul
himself.  He had wandered away with his girls into the wood, till he was
sent to the boats again by the country people who gathered about him;
and he lay hidden with Denis under the awning of the barge, playing duck
and drake on the smooth water, till the islanders found out where he
was, and came swimming out, to spoil their sport.  It was a day too soon
gone: but yet he did not consider it ended when they landed at
Pongaudin, at ten o'clock.  The moon was high, the gardens looked
lovely; and he led his wife away from the party, among the green alloys
of the shrubbery.

"I want to know what you think," exclaimed Madame L'Ouverture, as they
emerged from a shaded walk upon a grass plot, on which the light lay,
clear and strong--"I want to ask you"--and as she spoke, she looked
round to see that no one was at hand--"whether you do not think that
General Vincent loves Aimee."

"I think he does.  I suspected it before, and to-day I am sure of it."

"And are not you glad?"

"That partly depends on whether Aimee loves him.  I doubt whether
Vincent, who is usually a confident fellow enough, is so happy about the
matter as you are."

"Aimee is not one who will ever show herself too ready--Aimee is very
quiet--"

"Well, but, is she ready in her heart?  Does she care about Vincent?"

"I do not know that she does quite, yet--though I think she likes him
very much, too.  But surely she will love him--she must love him--so
much as he loves her--and so delightful, so desirable a match as it is,
in every way!"

"You think it so."

"Why, do not you?  Consider how many years we have known him, and what
confidence you had in him when you sent him with our dear boys to Paris!
And now he has done great things in the south.  He comes, covered with
glory, to ask us for our Aimee.  What could be more flattering?"

"It was our child's future happiness that I was thinking of, when I
seemed to doubt.  Vincent is full of good qualities; but he is so wholly
French that--"

"Not so French as Monsieur Pascal, who was born, brought up, and
employed at Paris; and you are pleased that he should marry Afra."

"Vincent is more French than Pascal, though he is a black.  He is
devoted to Bonaparte--"

"What of that?" said Madame L'Ouverture, after a pause.  "He is devoted
to you also.  And are you not yourself devoted to France and to
Bonaparte?  Do we not pray together for him every day of our lives?"

"Remember, Margot, to pray for him every day, as long as you live, if I
am separated from you by death or otherwise.  Pray that such a blessing
may rest upon him as that he may be wise to see his duty, and strong to
do it.  If he injures us, pray that he may be forgiven."

"I will," replied Margot, in a low voice; "but--"

She was lost in considering what this might mean.

"As for Vincent," resumed Toussaint, "my doubt is whether, with his
views and tastes, he ought to ally himself with a doomed man."

"Vincent is ambitious, my dear husband; and, even if he did not love our
child as he does, he might be anxious to ally himself with one so
powerful--so full of honours--with so very great a man as you.  I would
not speak exactly so if we were not alone: but it is very true, now that
the Central Assembly has declared you supreme in the colony.  Consider
what Vincent must think of that!  And he has travelled so much in the
island, that he must have seen how you deserve all that is said of you.
He has seen how all the runaways have come down from the mountains, and
the pirates in from the reefs and the coves; and how they are all
honestly cultivating the fields, and fishing in the bays.  He has seen
how rich the whole island is growing; and how contented, and
industrious, and honest, the people are, in this short time.  He has
seen that all this is your work: and he may well be ambitious to be your
son-in-law."

"Unless he has the foresight to perceive, with all this, that I am a
doomed man."

"I thought you said so--I thought I heard that word before," said
Margot, in a trembling voice; "but I could not believe it."

Toussaint knew by her tone that some vague idea of evil agency--some
almost forgotten superstition was crossing her imagination: and he
hastened to explain.

"Do not imagine," said he, solemnly, "do not for a moment suppose that
God is not on our side--that He will for a moment forsake us.  But it is
not always His pleasure that His servants should prosper, though their
good work prospers in the end.  I firmly trust and believe that our
Father will not permit us to be made slaves again; but it may be His
will that I and others should fall in defending our freedom."

"But the wars are at an end.  Your battles are all over, my love."

"How can we be sure of that, when Bonaparte has yet to learn what the
Assembly has done?  Hedouville is on the way home, eager to report of
the blacks, while he is ignorant of their minds, and prejudiced about
their conduct.  Monsieur Papalier and other planters are at Paris, at
the ear of Bonaparte, while his ear is already so quickened by jealousy,
that it takes in the lightest whisper against me and my race.  How can
we say that my battles are over, love, when every new success and honour
makes this man, who ought to be my brother, yet more my foe?"

"Oh, write to him!  Write to him, and tell him how you would have him be
a brother to you!"

"Have I not written twice, and had no reply but neglect?  I wrote to him
to announce the earliest prospect of entire peace.  I wrote again, to
explain my intercourse with his agent Roume, and requested his sanction
of what I had done.  There has been no reply."

"Then write again.  Write this very night!"

"I wrote yesterday, to inform him fully concerning the new constitution
framed by the Assembly.  I told him that it should be put in force
provisionally, till the pleasure of his government is made known."

"Oh, then, that must bring an answer."

Toussaint was silent.

"He must send some sort of answer to that," pursued Margot.  "What
answer do you think it will be?"

"You remember the great eagle that I shot, when we lived under the
mountains, Margot?  Do you remember how the kids played in the pasture,
with the shadow of that huge eagle floating above them?"

Margot, trembling, pressed closer to her husband's side.

"You saw to-day," he continued, "that troop of gay dolphins, in the
smooth sea beyond the island.  You saw the shark, with its glaring eyes,
opening its monstrous jaws, as it rose near the pretty creatures, and
hovered about them."

"But you shot the eagle," cried Margot; "and Denis wounded the shark."

"Heaven only knows how it may end with us," said Toussaint; "but we have
the shadow of Bonaparte's jealousy over us, and danger all about us.
The greater our prosperity, the more certain is it to bring all France
down upon us."

"Oh, can Bonaparte be so cruel?"

"I do not blame him for this our danger; and any future woe must all go
to the account of our former slavery.  We negroes are ignorant, and have
been made loose, deceitful, and idle, by slavery.  The whites have been
made tyrannical and unjust, by being masters.  They believe us now
ambitious, rebellious, and revengeful, because it would be no wonder if
we were so.  All this injustice comes of our former slavery.  God forbid
that I should be unjust too, and lay the blame where it is not due!  For
nothing done or feared in Saint Domingo do I blame Bonaparte."

"Then you think--Oh! say you think there is no danger for Placide and
Isaac.  Bonaparte is so kind to them!  Surely Placide and Isaac can be
in no danger!"

"There is no fear for their present safety, my love."

Toussaint would not for the world have told of his frequent daily
thought and nightly dream, as to what might be the fate of these
hostages, deliberately sent to France, and deliberately left there now.
He would not subject himself to entreaties respecting their return which
he dared not listen to, now that their recall would most certainly
excite suspicions of the fidelity of the blacks.  Not to save his
children would L'Ouverture do an act to excite or confirm any distrust
of his people.

"Bonaparte is kind to them, as you say, Margot.  And if Vincent should
win our Aimee, that will be another security for the lads; for no one
doubts his attachment to France."

"I hope Vincent will win her.  But when will you send for the boys?
They have been gone very long.  When will you send?"

"As soon as affairs will allow.  Do not urge me, Margot.  I think of it
day and night."

"Then there is some danger.  You would not speak so if there were not.
Oh! my husband! marry Vincent to Aimee!  You say that will be a
security."

"We must not forget Aimee herself, my love.  If she should hereafter
find her heart torn between her lover and her parents--if the hour
should come for every one here to choose between Bonaparte and me, and
Vincent should still adore the First of the Whites, what will become of
the child of the First of the Blacks?  Ought not her parents to have
foreseen such a struggle?"

"Alas! what is to become of us all, Toussaint?"

"Perhaps Genifrede is the happiest of our children, Margot.  She looks
anxious to-day; but in a few more days, I hope even her trembling heart
will be at rest."

"It never will," said.  Margot, mournfully.  "I think there is some evil
influence upon our poor child, to afflict her with perpetual fear.  She
still fears ghosts, rather than fear nothing.  She enjoys nothing,
except when Moyse is by her side."

"Well, Moyse will presently be by her side; and for life.--I was proud
of him, Margot, last week, at Cap.  I know his military talents, from
the day when we used to call the boy General Moyse.  I saw by his eye,
when I announced him as General Moyse in Cap, that he remembered those
old days on the north shore.  Oh, yes, I was aware of his talents in
that direction, from his boyhood; but I found in him power of another
kind.  You know what a passionate lover he is."

"Yes, indeed.  Never did I see such a lover!"

"Well, he puts this same power and devotedness into his occupation of
the hour, whatever it may be."

"Do you mean that he forgets Genifrede, when he is away from her?"

"I rather hope that it is the remembrance of her that animates him in
his work.  I'm sure that it is so; for I said a few words to him about
home, which made him very happy.  If I were to see him failing, as we
once feared he would--if I saw him yielding to his passions--to the
prejudices and passions of the negro and the slave, my reproof would be,
`You forget Genifrede.'  Moyse has yet much to learn--and much to
overcome; yet I look upon Genifrede as perhaps the most favoured of our
children.  It is so great a thing to be so beloved!"

"It is indeed the greatest thing."  Margot stopped, as a turn in the
walk brought them in view of the house.  The long ranges of verandah
stood in the moonlight, checkered with the still shadows of the
neighbouring trees.  Every window of the large white mansion gave out a
stream of yellow light, to contrast with the silvery shining of the
moon.  "This is very unlike the hut we went to when we were married,
Toussaint.  Yet I was quite happy and contented.  It is indeed the
greatest thing to be loved."

"And have you not that greatest thing here too?  Do I not love you, my
Margot?"

"Oh, yes!  Yes, indeed, we love each other as much as we did then--in
that single room, with its earthen floor, and its cribs against the
wall, and the iron pot in the fireplace, and the hen pecking before the
door.  But, Toussaint, look at the difference now!  Look at this
beautiful house, and all the gardens and cane-pieces--and think of our
palace at Port-au-Prince--and think of the girls as they look at church,
or in the boat to-day--and how the country is up, rejoicing, wherever
you go--and how the Assembly consider you--think of all that has
happened since, the wedding-day of ours at Breda!  It is so fine--so
wonderful, that you shall not frighten me about anything that can
happen.  I am sure the blessing of God is upon you, my husband; and you
shall not make me afraid."

"I would have none be afraid while God reigns, Margot.  May you ever say
that you will not fear!  The blessing of God may be on us now, love; but
it was never more so than when we went home to our hut at Breda.  When I
lay under the trees at noon, taking care of the cattle, how many things
I used to think of to say to you when I came home!"

"And so did I, as I kneeled at my washing by the brook-side, and you
were driving Monsieur Bayou, twenty miles off, and were expected home in
the evening.  How much there was to say at the end of those days!"

"It was not for ourselves then, Margot, that we have been raised to what
we are.  We were as happy drawing water in the wood, and gathering
plantains in the negro-grounds, as we have ever been in these
shrubberies.  We were as merry in that single room at Breda as in this
mansion, or in our palace.  It is not for our own sakes that we have
been so raised."

"It is pleasant for our children."

"It is.  And it is good for our race.  It is to make us their servants.
Oh!  Margot, if ever you find a thought of pride stirring at your heart,
remember that if the blacks were less ignorant and more wise, it would
not matter whether we lived as we used to do, or as we live now.  It is
because we negroes are vain and corrupted, that show and state are
necessary: and the sight of our show and state should, therefore, humble
us."

"I am sure you are not fond of show and state.  You eat and drink, and
wait upon yourself, as you did at Breda; and your uniform is the only
fine dress you like to wear.  I am sure you had rather have no court."

"Very true.  I submit to such state as we have about us, for the sake of
the negroes who need it.  To me it is a sacrifice; but, Margot, we must
make sacrifices--perhaps some which you may little dream of, while
looking round upon our possessions, and our rank, and our children,
worshipped as they are.  We must carry the same spirit of sacrifice into
all our acts; and be ready to suffer, and perhaps to fall, for the sake
of the blacks.  The less pride now, Margot, the less shame and sorrow
then!"

"I wish not to be proud," said Margot, trembling--"I pray that I may not
be proud; but it is difficult--Hark! there is a footstep!  Let us turn
into this alley."

"Nay," said Toussaint; "it is Monsieur Pascal.  No doubt I am wanted."

"For ever wanted!" exclaimed Margot.  "No peace!"

"It was not so at Breda," said Toussaint, smiling.  "I was just speaking
of sacrifice, you know: and this is not the last night that the moon
will shine.--News, Monsieur Pascal?"

"News from Cap," replied Monsieur Pascal, in a depressed tone.  "Bad
news!  Here are dispatches.  Not a moment is to be lost."

"There is light enough," said Toussaint, turning so that the moonlight
fell upon the page.

While he read, Monsieur Pascal told Madame L'Ouverture that messengers
had brought news of a quarrel at Cap--a quarrel between the races,
unhappily, about Hedouville's proclamation again;--a quarrel in which
several whites had been killed.  All was presently quiet; but the whites
were crying out for vengeance.

"No peace, as you say, Margot," observed Toussaint, when he had run over
the letters.  "See what a strong hand and watchful eye our poor people
require!  The curse of slavery is still upon us."

"How is Moyse?  Tell me only that.  What is Moyse doing?"

"I do not understand Moyse, nor what he is doing," said Toussaint
gloomily.  "Monsieur Pascal--"

"Your horses are coming round," said Pascal, "and I shall be there
almost as soon as you."

"Right: and Laxabon.  From me, ask the favour of Father Laxabon to
follow without delay.  Margot, take care of poor Genifrede.  Farewell!"

As he passed through the piazza, to mount his horse, Toussaint saw
Genifrede standing there, like a statue.  He embraced her, and found her
cold as marble.  He returned to his family for an instant, to beg that
she might not be immediately disturbed.  In an hour or two she might be
able to speak to her mother or sister; and she could not now.  Once more
he whispered to her that he would send her early news, and was gone.

Again and again Aimee looked timidly forth, to see if she might venture
to approach her sister.  Once Madame L'Ouverture went to her, and once
Therese; but she would say nothing but "Leave me!"  From her they went
to Afra, who wept incessantly, though she did not reject their
consolations.  The night wore on wearily and drearily.  When the moon
set, and the damps were felt wherever the air penetrated, Madame
L'Ouverture went once more to Genifrede, determined to take her to her
own chamber, and win her to open her heart.  But Genifrede was not
there, nor in her chamber.  The mother's terror was great, till a
cultivator came to say that Mademoiselle L'Ouverture had gone a journey,
on horseback, with her brother Denis to take care of her.  Denis's bed
was indeed found empty: and two horses were gone from the stables.  They
had fled to Moyse, no doubt.  The hope was that they might fall in with
Father Laxabon on the road, who would surely bring the poor girl back.
There was another road, however: and by this road Therese declared that
she would follow.

"Yes, yes--go!" exclaimed Madame L'Ouverture.  "She will heed you, if
any one.  She thinks you understand her.  She says--"

"She loves me," said Therese, sighing, "because--I hardly know--but
Heaven forgive me, if it be as she says!"

"She says you hate the whites," declared Aimee.  "If it be so, may
indeed Heaven forgive you!  Moyse hates the whites: and you see how
wretched we are!"

"Aimee, do not be hard.  We are made to love--my heart inclines to all
who are about me:--but if there are some--if one cannot--Oh, Aimee, do
not be hard!"

"It is those who hate who are hard," said Aimee, whose tears fell fast,
in sympathy with Afra's.  "Is it not so, Afra?"

"Well, I will go," said Therese, gently.  "One kiss, Aimee, for
Genifrede's sake!"

"For your own," said Aimee, tenderly embracing her.  "Bring back poor
Genifrede!  Tell her we will devote ourselves to her."

"Bring back my child," said Margot.  "Be sure you tell her that there
may be good news yet.  Moyse may have explanations to give;--he may do
great things yet."

These words renewed Afra's weeping, in the midst of which Therese
hastened away: when the remnant of the anxious family retired to their
chambers, not to sleep, but to pray and wait.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

PERPLEXITY.

As it might be supposed, Monsieur Revel and his grandchild had no desire
to remain in Government-house a moment longer than was necessary, as
Afra was obliged to leave it.  Afra's last care, before quitting Cap,
was to see that her friends were properly escorted to their home.

Euphrosyne was still struggling with the grief of saying farewell to
Afra, when she entered the pleasant sitting-room at home; but she smiled
through her tears when she saw how cheerful it looked.  There was a
mild, cool light in the room, proceeding from the reflection of the
evening sunshine from the trees of the convent garden.  The blinds were
open; and the perspective of one of the alleys was seen in the large
mirror on the wall--the shrubs noiselessly waving, and the gay flowers
nodding, in a sunlight and breeze which were not felt within.
Euphrosyne's work lay upon the table; the needle sticking in the very
stitch of embroidery at which she had laid it down, when she went to see
if her grandfather was awake, on the morning of their alarm.  Some loose
music had been blown down from the stand upon the floor; and the bouquet
of flowers was dead, the water dried up, and the leaves fallen to dust;
but when these were removed, there were no further signs of neglect and
desertion.

"How bright, how natural everything looks!" cried Euphrosyne.  "I do
love this room.  This is the place that we thought was to be sacked and
burnt!  I won't believe such nonsense another time.  I never will be
frightened again.  Grandpapa, do not you love this room?"

"It is a pretty room, my dear; and it looks very bright when you are in
it."

"Oh, thank you!" she cried, dropping a sportive curtsey.

"And now, will you look; at my work--(sit down here)--and tell
me--(where are your glasses?)--tell me whether you ever saw a prettier
pattern.  It is a handkerchief fit for a princess."

"It is very prettily worked, my dear.  And whom is it for?  Some very
elegant lady.  Is it for the First Consul's lady?  They say she is the
most elegant lady in the world--though she is a Creole, like you, my
darling.  Is your pretty handkerchief for her?"

"No, grandpapa.  I dare say she has all the ladies in France to work for
her.  I should like, if you have no objection, to send this to Madame
L'Ouverture!"

"To Madame L'Ouverture.  Why?  Has not she daughters to work
handkerchiefs for her, and plenty of money to buy them?  Why should you
prick your fingers in her service?"

"I should like that L'Ouverture himself should observe, some day, that
she has a beautiful handkerchief; and then, if he should ask, he would
find out that there is a little Creole girl who is very grateful to him
for his generosity to her colour."

"Do not speak of colour, child.  What expressions you pick up from Afra,
and such people!  It is our distinction that we have no colour--that we
are white."

"That is the distinction of the nuns, I know; but I hoped it was not
mine yet.  I do not forget how you pinch my cheek sometimes, and talk
about roses."

"What is there?  What do I see?" cried the old man, whose mind seemed
open to everything agreeable that met his observation, on his return
home.  "Are those the same little birds that you were wooing the other
morning?  No creature that has ever seen you, my dear, ever forgets you.
Nothing that you have spoken to ever deserts you.  Shy creatures, that
are afraid of everybody else, haunt you."

"Oh! you are thinking of the little spotted fawn."

"Spotted fawn or squirrel--baby or humming-bird--it is always the same,
child.  They all come to you.  I dare say these little creatures have
been flitting about the balcony and these rooms, ever since we went
away.  Now they have found you."

"They do not seem to care much about me, now we have met," said
Euphrosyne.  She followed them softly to the balcony, and along it, as
far as the window of Monsieur Revel's room.  There she found, stuck in
the bars of the balcony, a rather fresh branch of orange-blossoms.
While she was examining this, in some surprise, old Raphael spoke to her
from below.  He said he had made bold to climb up by his ladder, twice a
day, with something to entice the birds to that window; as he supposed
that, was what she wished, if she had been at home.  The abbess had
given him leave to take this liberty.

"There!" said Monsieur Revel, when she, flew to tell him, "there is
another follower to add to your fawns and kittens.  Old Raphael is
considered a crusty fellow everywhere; and you see how different he is
with you!"

"I am very glad," declared Euphrosyne.  "It is a pretty sight to amuse
you with, every morning when you wake.  It is kind of Raphael; and of
the abbess too."

"I am pleased that the abbess and you should be good friends,
Euphrosyne, because--Ah! that is the way," he said, in a mortified tone,
and throwing himself back in his chair, as he followed with his eyes the
flittings of the girl about the room, after her birds.  "You have got
your own way with everybody, and we have spoiled you; and there is no
speaking to you upon a subject that you do not like.  You will not hear,
though it is a thing that lies heavy at the heart of a dying old man."

"I will hear you, if you talk to me all my life," said Euphrosyne, with
brimming eyes, seating herself on a low stool at the old man's knees.

"And if you hear me, you will not give me a grave, steady answer."

"Try me," said she, brushing away the gathering tears.  "I am not crying
about anything you are going to say; but only because--Oh, grandpapa!
how could you think I would not listen to you?"

"Well, well, my love!  I see that you are willing now.  You remember
your promise to enter the convent, if I desired it."

"Yes."

"You talk of nothing being changed by our alarm, two days ago, because
this table stands in the middle of the room, and the ants and beetles
have not carried off your pretty work.  Hey!"

"May I speak, grandpapa?"

"Speak."

"I said so because nobody's house is burnt, or even robbed; and nobody
has been killed, or even hurt."

"But, nevertheless, there is a great change.  Our friends, my old
friends, all whom I feel I could rely upon in case of need, are gone to
France with Hedouville."

"Oh, grandpapa! very few whites are gone--they were chiefly mulattoes
who went with Hedouville; and so many whites remain!  And though they
are not, except, perhaps, Monsieur Critois, exactly our friends, yet we
can easily make acquaintance with them."

"No, no, child.  If they were not upstarts, as some of them are, and
others returned emigrants, of whom I know nothing, it is too late now
for me to make now friends.  My old companions are gone, and the place
is a desert to me."

His hands hung listlessly, as he rested on the arms of his chair.
Euphrosyne looked up in his face, while she said, as well as she could
for tears, "If you feel it so now, what will it be when I am shut up in
the convent, and you will hardly ever see me?"

"That is no affair of yours, child.  I choose that you should go."

"Whose affair is it, if it is not mine?  I am your grandchild--your only
one; and it is my business, and the greatest pleasure I have in the
world, to be with you, and wait upon you.  If I leave you, I shall hear
my poor mother reproaching me all day long.  Every morning at my
lessons, every night at my prayers, I shall hear her saying, `Where is
your grandfather?  How dare you desert him when he has only you left?'
Grandpapa, I shall be afraid to sleep alone.  I shall learn to be afraid
of my blessed mother."

"It is time you were sent somewhere to learn your duty, I think.  We are
at a bad pass enough; but there must be some one in the colony who can
tell you that it is your duty to obey your grandfather--that it is your
duty to perform what you promised him."

"I can preach that myself, grandpapa, when there is nobody else who can
do it better.  It is just what I have been teaching little Babet, this
month past.  I have no more to learn about that; but I will tell you
what I do want to learn--whether you are most afraid of my growing up
ignorant, or--(do just let me finish, and then we shall agree
charmingly, I dare say)--whether you are most afraid of my growing up
ignorant, or unsteady, or ill-mannered, or wicked, or what?  As for
being unsafe, I do not believe a word of that."

"Everything--all these things, child.  I am afraid of them all."

"What, all!  What a dreadfully unpromising creature I must be!"

"You know you must be very ignorant.  You have had no one to teach you
anything."

"Then I will go to the convent to study for four, six, eight, twelve
hours a day.  I shall soon have learned everything in the world at that
rate: and yet I can go on singing to you in the evenings, and bringing
your coffee in the mornings.  Twelve hours' study a day may perhaps make
me steady, too.  That was the next thing, was it not?"

"Now have done.  Say only one thing more--that you will perform your
promise."

"That is a thing of course; so I may just ask one other thing.  Who is
to wait upon you in my place?  Ah!  I see you have not fixed upon any
one yet; and, let me tell you, it will be no easy matter to find one who
makes coffee as I do.  Then, you have been waited upon by a slave all
your life.  Yes, you have; and you have a slave now sitting at your
knee.  People do not like being slaves now-a-days--nobody but me.  Now I
like it of all things.  So, what a pity to change!"

"I know," said the old man, sighing, "that I am apt to be peremptory.  I
know it is difficult to please me sometimes.  It is very late in life--I
am very old to set about improving: but I will try not to hurt any one
who will wait upon me, as I am afraid I have often hurt you, my dear.  I
will make any effort, if I can only feel that you are safe.  Some one
has been telling you stories of old times, I see.  Perhaps you can ask
any servant that we may engage--you may make it your request that she
will bear with me."

"Oh, grandpapa!  Stop, grandpapa!  I cannot bear it," cried the sobbing
girl.  "I never will joke again, if you do not see that it is because I
love you so, that I will venture anything rather than leave you.  We all
love you dearly.  Pierre would not for the world live with anybody else.
You know he would not.  And that is just what I feel.  But I will do
everything you wish.  I will never refuse again--I will never jest, or
try, even for your own sake, to prevent your having all your own way.
Only be so kind, grandpapa, as never to say anything against yourself
again.  Nobody else would dare to do such a thing to me, and I cannot
bear it."

"Well, well, love!  I see now that no one has been babbling to you.  We
will never quarrel any more.  You will do as I wish, and we will have no
more disputing.  Are they bringing our coffee?"

When Euphrosyne came out from placing her grandfather's pillows, and
bidding him good-night, she found Pierre lingering about, as if wanting
to speak to her.

"Have you anything to say to me.  Pierre?"

"Only just to take the liberty of asking, Mademoiselle, whether you
could not possibly gratify my master in the thing he has set his heart
upon.  If you could, Mademoiselle, you may rely on it, I would take
every care of him in your absence."

"I have no doubt, Pierre, of your doing your part."

"Your part and mine are not the same, I know, Mademoiselle.  But he is
so persuaded of there being danger for you here, that everything you do
for him goes to his heart."

"Have _you_ that idea, Pierre?"

"Indeed, Mademoiselle, I know nothing about it--more than that it takes
a long time for people in a town, or an island, to live comfortably
together, on equal terms, after having all their lives looked upon one
another as tyrants and low revengeful servants."

"I do not think any one looks on me as a tyrant, or would think of
hurting poor grandpapa or me.  How you shake your head, Pierre!  We have
lived seven years in peace and quiet--sometimes being afraid, but never
having found cause for fear.  However, if grandpapa really is uneasy--"

"That is the point, Mademoiselle.  He is so."

"Do you suppose I could see the abbess, if I were to go to the convent
to consult her?  It is not late."

"If the Dumonts were but here still!" said Pierre--"only next door but
one!  It was a comfort to have them at hand on any difficulty."

"If they were here, I should not consult them.  They were so prejudiced
against all the mulattoes, and put so little trust in L'Ouverture
himself--as indeed their going off in such a hurry with Hedouville
proves--that I should not have cared for their opinion to-night.
Suppose you step to the convent, Pierre, and ask whether the lady abbess
could see me for half-an-hour on business.  If I am to leave grandpapa,
I should like to tell him in the morning that it is all settled."

Pierre went with alacrity, and was back in three minutes, when he found
Euphrosyne shawled and veiled for the visit.  The lady awaited her.

"What can I do for you, my child?" said the abbess, kindly seating
Euphrosyne beside her, in her parlour.

"You will tell me what you think it is my duty to do, when I have told
you my story.  I know I have laughed and joked too much about this very
matter; and that partly because I had a will of my own about it.  But it
is all serious enough now; and I really do wish to find out my duty upon
it."

"In order to do your duty, whatever it may cost you?"

"Certainly."

She then told her story.  The lady at length smiled, and observed--

"You have no very strong inclination to join us, I perceive."

"Not any," frankly replied Euphrosyne.  "I have no doubt the sisters are
very happy.  They choose their way of life for themselves.  I only feel
it is one that I should never choose.  Nor would grandpapa for me, for
more than a short time.  I hope, madam, you understand that we neither
of us think of my ever becoming a nun."

"I see that there is no present sign of its being your vocation."

"And there never will be," cried Euphrosyne, very earnestly.  "I assure
you, I cannot bear the idea of it."

"So I perceive, my dear.  I am quite convinced, I assure you.  Have you
as great a dislike to being educated?"

"Almost, I am afraid.  But I could get over that.  I like reading very
well, and learning things at my own time, and in my own way; but I feel
rather old to begin to be under orders as to what I shall learn, and
when and how; and yet rather young to be so grave and regular as the
sisters are.  I am fifteen, you know."

"You are not aware, I see, how much we laugh when we are by ourselves,
nor how we like to see girls of fifteen happy and gay.  I think, too,
that I may answer for the sisters not quarrelling with you about what
you ought to learn.  You will comply with the rules of the house as to
hours; and your preceptresses will allow you, as far as possible, to
follow your bent."

"You are very kind, as you always are.  But I think far less of all this
than of what grandpapa is to do without me.  Consider what long, weary
days he will have!  He has scarcely any acquaintance left in Cap; and he
has been accustomed to do nothing without me.  He will sit and cry all
day--I know he will."

And Euphrosyne's tears began to overflow at the thought.

"It is a great honour, my child, to have been made such a blessing to an
old man."

"It was almost the only one he had left.  Up to that terrible
ninety-one--"

The abbess shuddered.

"You knew my mother and sisters?"

"Very little.  I was then a humble sister, and had little, intercourse
with any ladies who might occasionally visit us.  But I remember her
coming, one day, with her children--three! girls--one who ran about the
garden, and two modest, blushing girls, who accepted some of our
flowers."

"I must have been the little one who ran about, and the others were my
poor sisters.  Well, all these, besides my papa, were always about
grandpapa; and he never wanted amusement or waiting on.  Since that
dreadful time, he has had only me; and now, in his old age, when he has
no strength, and nothing to do, he is going to be all alone!  Oh, madam,
I think it is wicked to leave him!  Had anybody ever a clearer duty than
I have--to stay with him?"

"You would be quite right if it was anybody but himself that desired you
to leave him.  Your first duty, my dear, is to obey his wishes."

"I shall never be able to learn my lessons, for thinking of him, sitting
alone there--or perhaps lying in bed, because there is nothing to get up
for."

"Now you are presumptuous.  You are counting upon what may never happen,
and fearing to leave your parent in the hand of Him who gave you to him.
Suppose you were to die to-night, I fear you could not trust him in the
hands of Him who wraps us round with old age, before taking us home to
Himself."

"Oh, yes, I could so trust him to-night, if I myself had watched him to
sleep.  But a month hence, if I were to die, I should dread to meet my
parents.  They would ask me, `How is our father?' and I should have to
answer, `I do not know--I have left him--I have done nothing for him of
late.'  The whole time that I am here, madam, I shall be afraid to die
and meet my mother."

"We must lead you to doubt your own notions, and to trust more in God,"
said the lady, gently.  "We know not what a day may bring forth; and as
you grow older, you will find how, in cases of hard and doubtful duty,
our way becomes suddenly clear, so as to make us ashamed of our late
anguish.  Father Gabriel will tell you that one night he lost his way
among the marshes in the plain.  The clouds hung thick and low overhead,
and there was not a ray of light.  He plunged on the one hand into the
marsh; and on the other, the reeds grew higher than his head.  Behind
him was a wood that he had hardly managed to struggle through; and he
knew not what might be before him.  He groped about for a firm place to
stand on, and had no idea which way to move.  At last, without his
having felt a breath of wind, he found that the clouds had parted to the
right, making a chink through which he saw the Cibao peaks standing up
against a starlight sky; and, to the left, there was, on the horizon, a
dim white line which he could not understand, till the crescent moon
dropped down from behind the cloudy canopy, across a bar of clear sky,
and into the sea.  This made him look whether the church of Saint
Hilaire was not close by.  He made out its dim mass through the
darkness, and in a few minutes stood in the porch.  So, my child, is our
way (even yours, young as you are) sometimes made too dark for our
feeble eyes; and thus, from one quarter or another, is a ray permitted
to fall that we may not be lost."

"Thank you," said Euphrosyne, softly.  "May I come to-morrow?"

"At any hour you shall be welcome, my dear."

"If you will appoint me something to do every morning in the garden,
madam, grandpapa might sit in the balcony, to see me, and talk to me.
That will be a reason for his getting up.  That, will prevent his lying
too long, for want of something to do."

"A very good plan.  If you love your grandfather so, Euphrosyne, how
would you have loved your mother, if she had lived?"

"Had you a mother, when you were my age?"

"Yes, my dear.  But do not let us speak of that.  Do you remember your
mamma, my dear?"

"Yes--a little.  I remember her sitting in a wood--on the ground--with
her head bent down upon her knees, and a great many black people about."

"Well--tell me no more.  I ought not to have asked you.  I was not
thinking of that horrid time."

"But I do not mind telling you.  I like to speak of it; and I never can
to grandpapa--it makes him so ill.  Mamma shook so, that I remember
putting my arms about her to keep her warm, till I found how burning hot
her hands were.  My sisters were crying; and they told me not to ask any
more why papa did not come to us; for he was dead.  I remember being
wakened by a noise when I was very sleepy, and seeing some soldiers.
One of them lifted me up, and I was frightened, till I saw that, they
were carrying mamma too.  They put us both into a cart.  I did not see
my sisters; and I believe they were both dead then, of grief and
hardship.  And mamma never spoke again.  She looked as pale as her gown,
as she lay in the cart, with her eyes shut.  She was breathing, however,
and I thought she was asleep.  I felt very sleepy and odd.  The soldiers
said I was half-starved, and they gave me a plantain that they pulled by
the road-side.  I wanted them to give some to mamma too; but they made
me no answer.  I put mine into her hand, but she let it fall; and I
cried because she would not take any notice.  Then one of the soldiers
bade me eat my plantain; and I thought I must do as I was bid.  I forget
where we went next."

"You remember more than I had supposed.  Your mother was brought on
board the ship where we were; and there she presently died."

"You were on board ship, madam?"

"Yes--all the sisters--for the town was not considered safe, even for
us."

"And where was--" Euphrosyne stopped abruptly.

"You were going to ask where my mother was," said the lady.  "I feel
that I was wrong in stopping you as I did just, now--for you might fancy
that my mother was in some way to blame.  She was a good mother to me--
full of kindness; but I did not make her happy."

"You did not?"

"Indeed I did not.  I crossed her in the thing she desired most of all--
that we should live together.  I believed it my duty to become a nun,
and I left her.  She returned to France, being a widow, and having no
other child; and there she died, among distant relations."

"Was she angry with you?"

"She never said or showed that she was.  But I know that she was grieved
to the very soul, and for life.  This, my dear, has been the greatest
affliction I have ever known.  I did not feel it so at the time, having
no doubt of my vocation; but what I have suffered since from the thought
that an only child and only parent, who ought to have made each other
happy, were both miserable, God only knows."

"Yet you did what you thought was your duty to God.  I wonder whether
you were right?"

"If you knew how many times--but," said the lady, interrupting herself,
"we shall know all when our hearts are laid open; and may minister to my
mother yet.  If I erred, and there be further punishment yet for my
error, I am ready to bear it.  You see, my child, how much you have to
be thankful for, that your difficulty is not from having failed in duty
to your parent.  For the future, fear not but that your duty will be
made clear to you.  I am sure this is all you desire."

"Shall we have any more such conversations as this when I come to live
here?  If we can--"

"We shall see," replied the lady, smiling.  "Father Gabriel says there
may easily be too much talk, even about our duties; but occasions may
arise."

"I hope so," said Euphrosyne, rising, as she perceived that the lady
thought it was time for her to go.  "I dare say Pierre is here."

Pierre had been waiting some time.

The abbess sat alone after Euphrosyne was gone, contemplating, not the
lamp, though her eyes were fixed upon it, but the force of the filial
principle in this lonely girl--a force which had constrained her to open
the aching wound in her own heart to a mere child.  She sat, till called
by the hour to prayer, pondering the question how it is that relations
designed for duty and peace become the occasions of the bitterest sin
and suffering.  The mystery was in no degree cleared up when she was
called to prayer--which, however, has the blessed power of solving all
painful mysteries for the hour.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

PERPLEXITY SOLVED.

"What is the matter, child?  What makes you look so merry?" asked
Monsieur Revel, when his eyes opened upon Euphrosyne the next morning.

"Nothing has happened, grandpapa.  The only thing is, that I like to do
what you wish; and I always will, as long as you live.  I will go to the
convent to-day.  You can send for me at any time when you want me, you
know.  I am sure the abbess will let me come whenever you send Pierre
for me."

"Well, well--do not be in such a hurry.  I do not want you to go to-day.
Why should you be in such a hurry?"

When the breeze had come to refresh him, and he had had his coffee,
Monsieur Revel felt more complaisant, and explained what he meant by
there being no hurry.  Euphrosyne should not leave him till to-morrow;
and this day should be spent as she pleased.  Whatever she liked to ask
to-day should be granted.  This indulgence was promised under a
tolerable certainty that she would ask nothing unreasonable: that she
would not propose a dinner-party of dark-complexioned guests, for
instance.  There might also be an expectation of what it would be that
she would choose.  M.  Revel was conscious that he did not visit his
estate of Le Bosquet, in the plain of Limbe, so often as Euphrosyne
would have liked, or as he himself knew to be good for his agent, the
cultivators, and his heiress.  He was aware that if he could have shown
any satisfaction in the present order of affairs, any good-will towards
the working of the new system, there might have been a chance of old
stories dying away--of old grievances being forgotten by the
cultivators, in his present acquiescence in their freedom.  He could not
order the carriage, and say he was going to Le Bosquet; but he had just
courage enough to set Euphrosyne free to ask to go.  It turned out
exactly as he expected.

"We will do what you will, my child, to-day.  I feel strong enough to be
your humble servant."

"It is a splendid day, grandpapa.  It must be charming at Le Bosquet.
If I order the carriage now, we can get there before the heat; and we
need not come home till the cool of the evening.  We will fill the
carriage with fruit and flowers for the abbess.  May I order the
carriage?"

Le Bosquet was only twelve miles off.  They arrived when the cultivators
were settling to their work after breakfast.  It was now, as on every
former occasion, a perplexity, an embarrassment to Euphrosyne, that the
negroes lost all their gaiety, and most of their civility, in the
presence of her grandfather.  She could hardly wonder, when she
witnessed this, at his intolerance of the very mention of the blacks, at
his ridicule of all that she ever told him about them, from her own
observation.  When she was in any other company, she saw them merry,
active, and lavish of their kindness and politeness; and whenever this
occurred, she persuaded herself that she must have been mistaken the
last time she and Monsieur Revel were at Le Bosquet, and that they ought
to go again soon.  The next time they went, there was the same gloom,
listlessness, and avoidance on the part of the negroes; the same care on
her grandfather's that she should not stir a step without the escort of
Pierre or the agent.  He would not even let her go with Portia, the
dairy-woman, to gather eggs; nor with little Sully, to see his
baby-brother.  She made up her mind that this was all wrong--that all
parties would have been more amiable and happy, if there had been the
same freedom and confidence that she saw on other estates.  Poor girl!
she little knew what was in all minds but her own--what recollections of
the lash and the stocks, and hunger and imprisonment on the one hand,
and of the horrors of that August night on the other.  She little knew
how generally it was supposed that she owed it to the grandfather whom
she loved so much that she was the solitary orphan whom every one
pitied.

It was, as Euphrosyne had said, a splendid day; and all went well.
Monsieur Revel would not go out much; but as he sat in the shaded room,
looking forth upon the lawn, the agent satisfied him with accounts of
the prosperity of the estate, the fine promise of the cacao walks, and
the health and regular conduct of the negroes.  Euphrosyne showed
herself from time to time, now in the midst of a crowd of children, now
with a lapful of eggs, and then with a basket of fruit.  In honour of
the master and young mistress, the dinner was very superb, and far too
long; so that the day had slipped away before Euphrosyne felt at all
disposed to return.  She was glad that the agent was engaged in a deep
discussion with his employer when the carriage came round; so that she
was able to make one more short circuit in the twilight while they were
settling their point.

The gentlemen were talking over the two late proclamations--
L'Ouverture's and Hedouville's.  The agent wished that Hedouville had
never come, rather than that he should have set afloat the elements of
mischief contained in his proclamation.  Monsieur Revel could not
believe that a Commissary, sent out for the very purpose of regulating
such matters, could have got very far wrong upon them; and besides, the
proclamation had never been issued.  Never formally issued, the agent
said; but it had been circulated from hand to hand of those who were
interested in its provisions.  Some were, at that moment, preparing to
act upon it; and he feared that mischief might come of it yet.  It was
certain that L'Ouverture knew more about claims to deserted estates, and
about the proper regulations as to tillage, than any novice from France
could know; and it was no less certain that he was ever more eager to
gratify the whites than the blacks.  It would have been by far the
wisest plan to leave that class of affairs in the hands of the person
who understood them best; and, if he was not much mistaken, the
Government at home would yet rue Hedouville's rashness in acting without
so much as consulting L'Ouverture.  Monsieur Revel was so amazed at
finding that L'Ouverture was not only worshipped by romantic young
ladies and freed negroes, but approved and confided in by such practical
and interested whites as his own agent, that he could only say again
what he said every day--that the world was turned upside down, and that
he expected to be stripped, before he died, of Le Bosquet, and of
everything else that he had; so that his poor child would be left
dependent on the charity of France.  To this the agent replied, as
usual, that the property had never before been so secure, nor the estate
so prosperous; and that all would go well, if only the Government at
home would employ competent people to write its proclamations.

"Where is this child?" cried Monsieur Revel at last.  "I am always kept
waiting by everybody.  It is dark already, and the carriage has been
standing this hour.  Where is she?"

"Mademoiselle is in the carriage," said Pierre, from the hall.  "I made
Prince light the lamps, though he thinks we shall not want them."

"Come, come! let us lose no more time," said Monsieur Revel, as if every
one had not been waiting for him.

Euphrosyne jumped from the carriage, where she had been packing her
basket of eggs, her fruit, and her flowers, so that they might be out of
her grandfather's way.  He could not admire any of them, and found them
all in his way.  While the road lay under the dark shadow of the groves
on the estate, he cast anxious glances among the tall stems on which the
carriage lamps cast a passing gleam.  He muttered a surly good-night to
the negroes who held open the gates; but, when the last of these
swung-to, when the carriage issued upon the high road, and the plain
lay, though dim in the starlight, yet free and lovely to the eye, while
the line of grey sea was visible to the left, the old man's spirits
seemed to rise.  It was seldom that he quitted the town; and when he
did, and could throw off his cares, he was surprised to find how
reviving were the influences of the country.

"It is a lovely night, really," said he.  "If you ever go to Paris, my
dear, you will miss this starlight.  There the stars seem to have shrunk
away from you, a myriad of miles.  Let those flowers be, child.  Why may
not I have the pleasure of smelling them?  There!  Let them lie.  Who
would believe that that sea, which looks so quiet now, will be rolling
and dashing upon the beach in November, as if it meant to swallow up the
plain?  How it seems to sleep in the starlight!  You found little Sully
grown, my dear, I dare say."

"Oh, yes! but more glad to see us than ever.  He had to show me how he
could read, and how he had been allowed to put a new leg to the master's
desk at the school.  Sully will make a good carpenter, I think.  He is
going to make a box for me; and he declares the ants shall never get
through it, at the hinge, or lid, or anywhere.  How the people are
singing all about!  I love to hear them.  Prince drives so fast, that we
shall be home too soon.  I shall be quite sorry to be in the streets
again."

It seemed as if Prince had heard her, for, in another moment, he was
certainly checking his horses, and their speed gradually relaxed.

"He must have driven us fast, indeed," said Monsieur Revel.  "Look at
the lights of the town--how near they are!  Are those the lights of the
town?"

"I should have looked for them more to the left."  Euphrosyne replied.
"Let us ask Pierre.  We cannot possibly have lost our way."

Pierre rode up to the carriage window, at the moment that Prince came to
a full stop.

"We do not know," said Louis, the black footman, who was beside
Prince--"We do not know what those lights can mean.  They seem to be
moving, and towards this way."

"I think it is a body of people," said Pierre.  "I fear so, sir."

"We had better go back," said Euphrosyne.  "Let us go back to Le
Bosquet."

"Forward!  Forward!" cried Monsieur Revel, like one frantic.  "Why do
you stand still, you rascal?  I will drive myself if you do not push on.
Drive on--drive like the devil--like what you all are," he added, in a
lower tone.

"Surely we had better go back to Le Bosquet."

"No, no, you little fool," cried the agonised old man, grasping hold of
her, and dragging her towards himself.

Louis shouted from the box, as Prince lashed his horses onwards, "We
shall be in the midst of them, sir, this way."

"Drive on," was still the command.  "Drive through everything to get
home!"  As he clasped his arms round Euphrosyne, and pressed her so
closely that she could scarcely breathe, heaping his cloak upon her
head, she heard and felt him murmuring to himself--

"To Le Bosquet!  No, indeed! anywhere but there!  Once at home--she once
safe--and then--"

Euphrosyne would have been glad to see a little of what appeared--to
know something of what to expect.  Once or twice she struggled to raise
her head; but this only made the convulsive clasp closer than before.
All she knew was, that Pierre or the men on the box seemed to speak,
from time to time; for the passionate "Drive on!"

"Forward!" was repeated.  She also fancied that they must at last be in
the midst of a crowd; for the motion of the carriage seemed to be
interrupted by a sort of hustling on either side.  Her heart beat so
tumultuously, however, and the sense of suffocation was so strong, that
she was sure of nothing but that she felt as if dying.  Once more she
struggled for air.  At the same moment, her grandfather started--almost
bounded from his seat, and relaxed his hold of her.  She thought she had
heard firearms.  She raised her head; but all was confusion.  There was
smoke--there was the glare of torches--there was a multitude of shining
black faces, and her grandfather lying back, as if asleep, in the corner
of the carriage.

"Drive on!" she heard Pierre cry.  The whip cracked, the horses plunged
and scrambled, and in another moment broke through the crowd.  The
yelling, the lights, the smoke, were left behind; the air blew fresh;
and there was only calm starlight without, as before.

The old man's hand fell when lifted.  He did not move when she stroked
his cheek.  He did not answer when she spoke.  She put her hand to his
forehead, and it was wet.

"Pierre!  Pierre!" she cried, "he is shot! he is dead!"

"I feared so, Mademoiselle.  Drive on, Prince!"

In an inconceivably short time, they were at their own door.  Pierre
looked into the carriage, felt his master's wrist and heart, spoke
softly to Prince, and they drove on again--only past the corner--only to
the gate of the convent.

When it was opened, Pierre appeared at the carriage door.  "Now,
Mademoiselle," he said.  He half pulled, half lifted her over the
crushed fruit and flowers that were in her way--glanced in her face, to
see whether she had observed that the body fell behind her--carried her
in, and gave her, passive and stupified, into the arms of two nuns.
Seeing the abbess standing behind, he took off his hat, and would have
said something; but his lips quivered, and he could not.

"I will," said the lady's gentle voice, answering to his thought.  "My
young daughter shall be cherished here."



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

A LOVER'S LOVE.

This new violence had for its object the few whites who were rash and
weak enough to insist on the terms of Hedouville's intended
proclamation, instead of abiding by that of L'Ouverture.  The
cultivators on the estates of these whites left work, rather than be
reduced to a condition of virtual slavery.  Wandering from plantation to
plantation, idle and discontented, they drew to themselves others who,
from any cause, were also idle and discontented.  They exasperated each
other with tales, old and new, of the tyranny of the whites.  Still,
further mischief might have been prevented by due vigilance and firmness
on the part of him in whose charge the town and district of Cap Francais
now lay.  Stories, however, passed from mouth to mouth respecting
General Moyse--anecdotes of the words he had dropped in dislike of the
whites--of the prophecies he had uttered of more violence before the old
masters would be taught their new place--rumours like these spread, till
the gathering mob at length turned their faces towards the town, as if
to try how far they might go.  They went as far as the gates, having
murdered some few of the obnoxious masters, either in their own houses,
or, as in the case of Monsieur Revel, where they happened to meet them.

On the Haut-du-Cap they encountered General Moyse coming out against
them with soldiery.  At first he looked fierce; and the insurgents began
to think each of getting away as he best might.  But in a few moments,
no one seemed to know how or why, the aspect of affairs changed.  There
was an air of irresolution about the Commander.  It was plain that he
was not really disposed to be severe--that he had no deadly intentions
towards those he came to meet.  His black troops caught his mood.  Some
of the inhabitants of the town, who wore on the watch with glasses from
the gates, from the churches, and from the roofs of houses, afterwards
testified to there having been a shaking of hands, and other amicable
gestures.  They testified that the insurgents crowded round General
Moyse, and gave, at one time cheers, at another time groans, evidently
on a signal from him.  No prisoners were made--there was not a shot
fired.  The General and his soldiers returned into the town, and even
into their quarters, protesting that no further mischief would happen,
but the insurgents remained on the heights till daylight; and the
inhabitants, feeling themselves wholly unprotected, sent off expresses
to the Commander-in-Chief, and watched, with arms loaded, till he, or
one of his more trustworthy Generals, should arrive.  These expresses
were stopped and turned back, by order of General Moyse, who ridiculed
the idea of further danger, and required the inhabitants to be satisfied
with his assurances of protection.  Fortunately, however, one or two
messengers who had been sent off a few hours before, on the first alarm,
had reached their destination, while General Moyse was yet on the
Haut-du-Cap.

The first relief to the anxious watchers was on seeing the heights
gradually cleared at sunrise.  The next was the news that L'Ouverture
was entering the town, followed by the ringleaders from Limbe, whom he
was bringing in as prisoners.  He had proceeded directly to the scene of
insurrection, where the leaders of the mob were delivered up to him at
his first bidding.  It now remained to be seen what he would do with
those, within the town, high or low in office, who were regarded by the
inhabitants as accessories.

This kind of speculation was not abated by the sight of L'Ouverture, as
he passed through the streets.  Grave as his countenance usually was,
and at times melancholy, never had it been seen so mournful as to-day.
Years seemed to have sunk down upon him since he was last seen--so
lately that the youngest prattler in the Cap had not ceased to talk of
the day.  As he walked his horse through the streets, many citizens
approached, some humbly to ask, others eagerly to offer information.
With all these last he made appointments, and rode on.  His way lay past
Monsieur Revel's door; and it happened to be at the very time that the
funeral (an affair of hurry in that climate) was about to take place.
At the sight, L'Ouverture stopped, opposite the door.  When the coffin
was brought out, he took off his hat, and remained uncovered till it
moved on, when he turned his horse, and followed the train to the corner
of the street.  There were many present who saw his face, and by whom
its expression of deep sorrow was never afterwards forgotten.  When he
again turned in the direction of Government-house, he proceeded at a
rapid pace, as if his purposes had been quickened by the sight.

His aides, who had been dispersed on different errands, entered the town
by its various avenues; and some of them joined him in the Jesuits'
Walk.  At the gate of Government-house he was received by General Moyse,
who had been almost the last person in Cap to hear of his arrival.
L'Ouverture acknowledged his military greeting; and then, turning to his
aides, said in a calm tone, which yet was heard half-way down the Walk,
and thence propagated through the town, as if by echoes--

"General Moyse is under arrest."

As Moyse was moving off towards the apartment in which he was to be
guarded, he requested an interview with the Commander-in-Chief.

"After your business with the court-martial is concluded," was the
reply.  "On no account before."

General Moyse bowed, and proceeded to his apartment.

For some hours after, there was every indication of the rapid
transaction of business in Government-house.  Messengers were sent to
Fort Dauphin, to the commanding officer at Limbe, and to every military
station within thirty miles.  Orders were issued for the garrison of Cap
to be kept close within their quarters.  Not a man was to be allowed, on
any pretence whatever, to pass the barrack-gates, which were
well-guarded by the Commander-in-Chief's own guards, till troops for the
service of the town could arrive from Fort Dauphin.  As L'Ouverture was
closeted with his secretary, message after message was reported; letter
upon letter was delivered by his usher.  Among these messages came, at
length, one which made him start.

"Mademoiselle L'Ouverture begs to be permitted to see General Moyse."

Before he could reply, a note by another messenger was put into his
hands.

  "I implore you to let me see Moyse.  I do not ask to see you.  I do
  not wish it.  I will disturb no one.  Only give me an order to see
  Moyse--for his sake, and that of your unhappy

  "Genifrede."

Toussaint left the room, and was but too well directed by the
countenances of his servants to the room where Genifrede was lying, with
her face hidden, upon a sofa.  Denis was standing silent at a window
which overlooked the Walk.  Both were covered with dust from their
journey.

Genifrede looked up, on hearing some one enter.  When she saw that it
was her father, she again buried her face in the cushions, saving only--

"Oh, why did you come?"

"Stay, my child, why did you come?  How--why--"

"I always know," said she, "when misery is near; and where misery is,
there am I.  Do not be angry with Denis, father.  I made him come."

"I am angry with no one, Genifrede.  I am too much grieved to be angry.
I am come to take you to Moyse.  I cannot see him myself, at present;
but I will take you to the door of the salon where he is."

"The salon!" said Genifrede, as if relieved.  She had probably imagined
him chained in a cell.  This one word appeared to alter the course of
her ideas.  She glanced at her travel-soiled dress, and hesitated.  Her
father said--

"I will send a servant to you.  Refresh yourself; and in half-an-hour I
will come again."

When he rejoined her, she was still haggard and agitated, but appeared
far less wretched than before.

"Genifrede!" cried Moyse, as she entered and leaned against the wall,
unable to go farther.  "Genifrede!  And was not that your father who
admitted you?  Oh, call him, Genifrede!  Call him back!  I must see him.
If you ask him, he will come.  Call him back, Genifrede!"

"If you are engaged, Moyse," said she in a sickening voice, "if I am in
your way, I will go."

"No, no, my love.  But I must see your father.  Everything may depend
upon it."

"I will go--as soon as I can," said the poor girl, beginning to sink to
the floor.

"You shall not go, my love--my Genifrede," cried Moyse, supporting her
to a sofa.  "I did not know--I little thought--Are you all here?"

"No; I came to see you, Moyse.  I told you how it would be if we
parted."

"And how will it be, love?"

"Oh, how can you make me say it?  How can you make me think it?"

"Why, Genifrede, you cannot suppose anything _very_ serious will happen.
What frightens you so?  Once more I ask you the old question that we
must both be weary of--what frightens you so?"

"What frightens me!" she repeated, with a bewildered look in her face.
"Were we not to have been married as soon as you were relieved from your
command here?  And are you not a prisoner, waiting for trial--and that
trial for--for--for your life?"

"Never believe so, Genifrede!  Have they not told you that the poor
blacks behaved perfectly well from the moment they met me?  They did not
do a single act of violence after I went to them.  Not a hand was raised
when they had once seen me; and after I had put them into good-humour,
they all went to their homes."

"Oh, is it so?  Is it really so?  But you said just now that everything
depended on your seeing my father."

"To a soldier, his honour, his professional standing, are everything--"

Seeing a painful expression in Genifrede's face, he explained that even
his private happiness--the prosperity of his love, depended on his
professional honour and standing.  She must be as well aware as himself
that he was now wholly at her father's mercy, as regarded all his
prospects in life; and that this would justify any eagerness to see him.

"At his mercy," repeated Genifrede; "and he is merciful.  He does acts
of mercy every day."

"True--true.  You see now you were too much alarmed."

"But, Moyse, how came you to need his mercy?  But two days ago how proud
he was of you! and now--Oh!  Moyse, when you knew what depended on these
few days, how could you fail?"

"How was it that, he put me into an office that I was not fit for?  He
should have seen--"

"Then let us leave him, and all these affairs which make us so
miserable.  Let us go to your father.  He will let us live at Saint
Domingo in peace."

Moyse shook his head, saying that there were more whites at Saint
Domingo than in any other part of the island; and the plain truth was,
he could not live where there were whites.

"How was it then that you pleased my father so much when Hedouville went
away?  He whispered to me, in the piazza at Pongaudin, that, next to
himself, you saved the town--that many whites owed their lives and their
fortunes to you."

"I repent," cried Moyse, bitterly, "I repent of my deeds of that day.  I
repent that any white ever owed me gratitude.  I thank God, I have
shaken them off, like the dust from my feet!  Thank God, the whites are
all cursing me now!"

"What do you mean?  How was it all?" cried Genifrede, fearfully.

"When Hedouville went away, my first desire was to distinguish myself,
that I might gain you, as your father promised.  This prospect, so near
and so bright, dazzled me so that I could not see black faces from
white.  For the hour, one passion put the other out."

"And when--how soon did you begin to forget me?" asked Genifrede,
sorrowfully.

"I have never forgotten you, love--not for an hour, in the church among
the priests--in the square among the soldiers, any more than here as a
prisoner.  But I thought my point was gained when your father stooped
from his horse, as he rode away, and told me there would be joy at home
on hearing of my charge.  I doubted no more that all was safe.  Then I
heard of the insufferable insolence of some of the whites out at Limbe--
acting as if Hedouville was still here to countenance them.  I saw
exultation on account of this in all the white faces I met in Cap.  The
poor old wretch Revel, when my officers and I met his carriage, stared
at me through his spectacles, and laughed in my face as if--"

"Was his grandchild with him?  She was?  Then he was laughing at some of
her prattle.  Nothing else made him even smile."

"It looked as if he was ridiculing me and my function.  I was growing
more angry every hour, when tidings came of the rising out at Limbe.  I
knew it was forced on by the whites.  I knew the mischief was begun by
Hedouville, and kept up by his countrymen; and was it to be expected
that I should draw the sword for them against our own people?  Could I
have done so, Genifrede?"

"Would not my father have restored peace without drawing the sword at
all?"

"That was what I did.  I went out to meet the insurgents; and the moment
they saw that the whites were not to have their own way, they returned
to quietness, and to their homes.  Not another blow was struck."

"And the murderers--what did you do with them?"

Moyse was silent for a moment, and then replied--

"Those may deal with them who desire to live side-by-side with whites.
As for me, I quarrel with none who avenge our centuries of wrong."

"Would to God my father had known that this was in your heart!  You
would not then have been a wretched prisoner here.  Moyse, the moment
you are free, let us fly to the mornes.  I told you how it would be, if
we parted.  You will do as I wish henceforward; you will take me to the
Mornes?"

"My love, where and how should we live there?  In a cave of the rocks,
or roosting in trees?"

"People do live there--not now, perhaps, under my father's government:
but in the old days, runaways did live there."

"So you would institute a new race of banditti, under your father's
reign.  How well it will sound in the First Consul's council-chamber,
that the eldest daughter of the ambitious Commander-in-Chief is the
first bandit's wife in the mornes!"

"Let them say what they will: we must have peace, Moyse.  We have been
wretched too long.  Oh, if we could once be up there, hidden among the
rocks, or sitting among the ferns in the highest of those valleys, with
the very clouds between us and this weary world below--never to see a
white face more!  Then, at last, we could be at peace.  Everywhere else
we are beset with this enemy.  They are in the streets, in the churches,
on the plain.  We meet them in the shade of the woods, and have to pass
them basking on the sea-shore.  There is no peace but high up in the
mornes--too high for the wild beast, and the reptile, and the white
man."

"The white man mounts as high as the eagle's nest, Genifrede.  You will
not be safe, even there, from the traveller or the philosopher, climbing
to measure the mountain or observe the stars.--But while we are talking
of the free and breezy heights--"

"You are a prisoner," said Genifrede, mournfully.  "But soon, very soon,
we can go.  Why do you look so?  You said there was no fear--that
nothing serious could happen--nothing more than disgrace; and, for each
other's sake, we can defy disgrace.  Can we not, Moyse?  Why do not you
speak?"

"Disgrace, or death, or anything.  Even death, Genifrede.  Yes--I said
what was not true.  They will not let me out but to my death.  Do not
shudder so, my love: they shall not part us.  They shall not rob me of
everything.  You did well to come, love.  If they had detained you, and
I had had to die with such a last thought as that you remained to be
comforted, sooner or later, by another--to be made to forget me by a
more prosperous lover--O God!  I should have been mad!"

"You are mad, Moyse," cried Genifrede, shrinking from him in terror.  "I
do not believe a word you say.  I love another!--they kill you!  It is
all false!  I will not hear another word--I will go."

To go was, however, beyond her power.  As she sank down again,
trembling, Moyse said in the imperious tone which she both loved and
feared--

"I am speaking the truth now.  I shall be tried to-night before a
court-martial, which will embody your father's opinion and will.  They
will find me a traitor, and doom me to death upon the Place.  I must
die--but not on the Place--and you shall die with me.  In one moment, we
shall be beyond their power.  You hear me, Genifrede?  I know you hear
me, though you do not speak.  I can direct you to one, near at hand, who
prepares the red water, and knows me well.  I will give you an order for
red water enough for us both.  You will come--your father will not
refuse our joint request--you will come to me as soon as the trial is
over; and then, love, we will never be parted more."

Genifrede sat long with her face hidden on her lover's shoulder,
speechless.  After repeated entreaties that she would say one word,
Moyse raised her up, and, looking in her face, said authoritatively--

"You will do as I say, Genifrede?"

"Moyse, I dare not.  No, no, I dare not!  If, when we are dead, you
should be dead to me too!  And how do we know?  If, the very next
moment, I should see only your dead body with my own--if you should be
snatched away somewhere, and I should be alone in some wide place--if I
should be doomed to wander in some dreadful region, calling upon you for
ever, and no answer!  Oh, Moyse! we do not know what fearful things are
beyond.  I dare not; no, no, I dare not!  Do not be angry with me,
Moyse!"

"I thought you had been ready to live and die with me."

"And so I am--ready to live anywhere, anyhow--ready to die, if only we
could be sure--Oh! if you could only tell me there is nothing beyond--"

"I have little doubt," said Moyse, "that death is really what it is to
our eyes--an end of everything."

"Do you think so?  If you could only assure me of that--But, if you were
really quite certain of that, would you wish me to die too?"

"Wish it!  You must--you shall," cried he, passionately.  "You are
mine--mine for ever; and I will not let you go.  Do not you see--do not
you feel," he said, moderating his tone, "that you will die a slow death
of anguish, pining away, from the moment that cursed firing in the Place
strikes upon your ear?  You cannot live without love--you know you
cannot--and you shall not live by any other love than mine.  This little
sign," said he, producing a small carved ivory ring from his
pocket-book, "This little sign will save you from the anguish of a
thousand sleepless nights, from the wretchedness of a thousand days of
despair.  Take it.  If shown at Number 9, in the Rue Espagnole, in my
name, you will receive what will suffice for us both.  Take it,
Genifrede."

She took the ring, but it presently dropped from her powerless hands.

"You do not care for me," said Moyse, bitterly.  "You are like all
women.  You love in fair weather, and would have us give up everything
for you; and when the hurricane comes, you will fly to shelter, and shut
out your lover into the storm."

Genifrede was too wretched to remind her lover what was the character of
his love.  It did not, indeed, occur to her.  She spoke, however:--

"If you had remembered, Moyse, what a coward I am, you would have done
differently, and not have made me so wretched as I now am.  Why did you
not bid me bring the red water, without saying what it was, and what
for?  If you had put it to my lips--if you had not given me a moment to
fancy what is to come afterwards, I would have drunk it--oh, so
thankfully!  But now--I dare not."

"You are not afraid to live without me."

"Yes, I am.  I am afraid of living, of dying--of everything."

"You once asked me about--"

"I remember--about your spirit coming."

"Suppose it should come, angry at your failing me in my last desire?"

"Why did you not kill me?  You know I should have been thankful.  I wish
the roof would fall and bury us now."

She started and shrieked when she heard some one at the door.  It was
her father's servant, who told her that Madame Dessalines had arrived,
and that L'Ouverture wished her to come and receive her friend.  The
servant held the door open, so that there was opportunity only for
another word.

"Remember," said Moyse, "they are not to seduce or force you back to
Pongaudin to-day.  Remember, you are not fit to travel.  Remember," he
again said, holding up the ivory ring, and then thrusting it into her
bosom, "you come to me as soon as the trial is over.  I depend upon
you."

He led her, passive and silent, to the door, where he kissed her hand,
saying, for the ear of any one who might be without, "For once, I cannot
accompany you further.  Tell Madame Dessalines that I hope to pay my
respects to her soon."  He added, to the servant--

"See that Julien is at Mademoiselle L'Ouverture's orders, till I need
his services myself."

The man bowed, pleased, as most persons are, to have a commission to
discharge for a prisoner.  Before he had closed the door, Genifrede was
in the arms of Therese.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

PANGS OF OFFICE.

That night.  Madame Dessalines was alone in a dimly-lighted apartment of
Government-house--dimly-lighted except by the moon, shining in full at
the range of windows which overlooked the gardens, so as to make the one
lamp upon the table appear like a yellow taper.  For most of the long
hours that she had sat there, Therese had been alone.  Denis had
entered, before his departure homewards, to ask what tidings he was to
carry to Pongaudin from her.  Father Laxabon had twice appeared, to know
if he could not yet see Genifrede, to offer her consolation; and had
withdrawn, when he found that Genifrede was not yet awake.  Madame
Dessalines' maid had put her head in so often as to give her mistress
the idea that she was afraid to remain anywhere else; though it did not
quite suit her to be where she must speak as little as possible, and
that little only in whispers.  So Therese had been, for the most part,
alone since sunset.  Her work was on the table, and she occasionally
took up her needle for a few minutes; but it was laid down at the
slightest noise without; and again and again she rose, either to listen
at the chamber-door which opened into the apartment, or softly to pace
the floor, or to step out upon the balcony, to refresh herself with
looking down upon the calm lights and still shadows of the gardens.

In the centre of one division of these gardens was a fountain, whose
waters, after springing in the air, fell into a wide and deep reservoir,
from whence were supplied the trenches which kept the alleys green and
fresh in all but the very hottest weeks of the year.  Pour straight
walks met at this fountain--walks hedged in with fences of citron,
geraniums, and lilac jessamine.  These walks were now deserted.  Every
one in the house and in the town was occupied with something far
different from moonlight strolls, for pleasure or for meditation.  The
chequered lights and shadows lay undisturbed by the foot of any
intruder.  The waters gleamed as they rose, and sparkled as they fell;
and no human voice, in discourse or in laughter, mingled with the murmur
and the splash.  Here Therese permitted herself the indulgence of the
tears which she had made an effort to conceal within.

"These young creatures!" thought she.  "What a lot!  They are to be
parted--wrenched asunder by death--by the same cause, for indulgence of
the same passion, which brought Jacques and me together.  If the same
priest were to receive their confession and ours, how would he reconcile
the ways of God to them and to us?  The thought of my child burns at my
heart, and its last struggle--my bosom is quivering with it still.  For
this Jacques took me to his heart, and I have ever since had--alas! not
forgetfulness of my child--but a home, and the good fame that a woman
cannot live without, and the love of a brave and tender heart--tender to
me, however hard to those we hate.  Jacques lives in honour, and in a
station of command, though he hates the whites with a passion which
would startle Moyse himself--hates them so that he does not even strive,
as I do, to remember that they are human--to be ready to give them the
cup of cold water when they thirst, and the word of sympathy when they
grieve.  He would rather dash the cup from their parched lips, and laugh
at their woes.  Yet Jacques lives in peace and honour at his palace at
Saint Marc, or is, in war, at the head of troops that would die for him:
while this poor young man, a mere novice in the passion, is too likely
to be cast out, as unworthy to live among us--among us who, God knows,
are in this regard more guilty than he!  The time may come, when
Genifrede's first passion is over, when I may tell her this.  Hark! that
trumpet!  The court-martial has broken up.  Oh, I wish I could silence
that trumpet!  It will waken her.  It is further off--and further.  God
grant she may not have heard it!"

She stepped in, and to the chamber-door, and listened.  There was no
stir, and she said to herself that her medicine had wrought well.  From
the window, which opened on one of the courtyards, she heard the
shuffling of feet, and the passing by of many persons.  She dared not
look out; but she felt certain that the trial was over, that the
officers were proceeding to their quarters, and the prisoner to his
solitude.  Her heart beat so that she was glad to return to her seat,
and cover her eyes from the light.  She was startled by the opening of
the door from the corridor.  It was L'Ouverture; and she rose, as every
one habitually did, at his approach.

"Genifrede?" he said, anxiously, as he approached.

Therese pointed to the chamber, saying softly--

"She is there.  I do not know what you will think of the means I have
taken to procure her sleep.  But she was so shaken--she so dreaded this
night!"

"You have given her medicine.  Is she asleep?"

"I gave her henbane, and she is asleep."

"Is there a chance of her sleeping till noon?"

"If she be not disturbed.  I have carefully darkened the room.  What,
has been done?" she inquired, looking in his face.  Struck with its
expression, she exclaimed, "How you have suffered!"

"Yes.  Life is bitter to those whom God has chosen.  If Moyse did but
know it, I almost envy him his rest."

"Is it over, then? is he dead?"

"He dies at sunrise.  You think Genifrede may sleep till noon?"

Therese could not reply, and he proceeded--

"He is found guilty, and sentenced.  There was no escape.  His guilt is
clear as noonday."

"No escape from the sentence," said Therese, eagerly.  "But there is
room for mercy yet.  You hold the power of life and death over all the
colony--a power like that of God, and put into your hand by Him."

"A power put into my hand by Him, and therefore to be justly used.
Moyse's crime is great, and mercy to him would be a crime in me.  I have
fault enough already to answer for in this business, and I dare not sin
yet further."

"You yourself have sinned?" said Therese, with a gleam of hope in her
countenance and tone.

"Yes.  I ought to have discerned the weakness of this young man.  I
ought to have detected the passions that were working in him.  I was
misled by one great and prolonged effort of self-control in him.  I
appointed an unworthy officer to the care of the lives and safety of the
whites.  Many of them have gone to lay their deaths to my charge in
heaven.  All I can now do is, by one more death (would to God it were my
own!) to save and to reassure those who are left.  It is my retribution
that Moyse must die.  As for Paul, as for Genifrede--the sin of the
brother is visited upon the brother--the sin of the father upon the
child."

"But," said Therese, "you speak as if you had caused the innocent to be
destroyed.  Some few harmless ones may have died; but the greater
number--those who were sought by the sword's point--were factious
tyrants--enemies of your Government, and of your race--men who rashly
brought their deaths upon themselves.  They were passionate--they were
stubborn--they were cruel."

"True--and therefore were they peculiarly under my charge.  I have
guaranteed the safety of the whites; and none need my protection so much
as those who do not, by justice, obedience, and gentleness, by gaining
the good-will of their neighbours, protect themselves."

"But Moyse did not murder any.  He was not even present at any death."

"It has just been proved that, while he knew that slaughter was going
on, he took no measures to stop it.  The ground of his guilt is plain
and clear.  The law of the revolution of Saint Domingo, as conducted by
me, is No retaliation.  Every breach of this law by an officer of mine
is treason; and every traitor to the whites must die."

"Alas! why so harsh now--only now?  You have spared the guilty before,
by tons, by hundreds.  Why, now, cause all this misery for this one
young life?"

"Those whom I have spared were my personal foes; and I spared them not
so much for the sake of their separate lives, as for the sake of the
great principles for which I live and govern--reconciliation and peace.
For this end I pardoned them.  For this end I condemn Moyse."

"You make one tremble," said Therese, shuddering, "for one's very self.
What if I were to tell you that it is not Moyse and Genifrede alone
that--" She stopped.

"That hate the whites?  I know it," replied Toussaint.  "I know that if
God were to smite all among us who hate His children of another race,
there would be mourning in some of the brightest dwellings of our land.
I thank God that no commission to smite such is given to me."

Therese was silent.

"My office is," said Toussaint, "to honour those (and they are to be
found in cottages all through the island) who forgive their former
oppressors, and forget their own wrongs.  Here, as elsewhere, we may
take our highest lesson from the lowliest men.  My office is to honour
such.  As for the powerful, and those who think themselves wise--their
secret feelings towards all men are between themselves and God."

"But if I could prove to you, at this moment, that Moyse's enmity
towards the whites is mild and harmless--his passions moderation,
compared with the tempest in the breasts of some whom you employ and
cherish--would not this soften you--would it not hold your hand from
inflicting that which no priest can deny is injustice in God?"

"I leave it to no priest, Therese, but to God Himself, to vindicate His
own justice, by working as He will in the secret hearts, or before the
eyes of men.  He may have, for those who hate their enemies, punishments
too great for me, or any ruler, to wield; punishments to which the
prison and the bullet are nothing.  You speak of the tempest within the
breast: I know at this moment, if you do not, that years of
imprisonment, or a hundred death-strokes, are mercy compared to it.  But
no more of this!  I only say, Therese, that while Jacques--"

"Say me too!"

"While Jacques and you secretly hate, I have no concern with it, except
in my secret heart.  But if that hatred, be it more or less than that of
this young man, should interfere with my duty to friend or foe, you see,
from his fate, that I have no mercy to grant.  Jacques is my friend:
Moyse was to have been my son."

Neither could immediately speak.  At length, Toussaint signed once more
to the chamber-door, and once more said--

"Genifrede?"

"I have something to tell you--something to show you," replied Therese.
"Her sleep or stupor came upon her suddenly: but she kept a strong grasp
upon the bosom of her dress.  When I laid her on the bed, she kept her
hands clasped one upon the other there.  As she slept more heavily, the
fingers relaxed; her hands fell, and I saw one end of this."

She produced a phial.

"Ha! the red water!" exclaimed Toussaint.

"I thought it was," said Therese.

"Who taught her this?  Who has been tampering with her, and with her
life?"

"Perhaps this may tell," said Therese, showing the ivory ring.

Toussaint closely examined the ring, and then drew his hand across his
brows.

"How strange," said he, "are old thoughts, long forgotten!  This bit of
ivory makes me again a young man, and a slave.  Do you remember that I
once had the care of the sick at Breda, and administered medicines?"

Therese shuddered.  She remembered that when her infant was taken ill,
Papalier had sent for Toussaint, because, though Toussaint was no longer
surgeon to the quarter at Breda, he was thought to have great knowledge
and skill.  Toussaint remembered nothing of this particular incident,
and was not aware how he had touched her feelings.  He went on:

"I began that study as all of my race have begun it, till of late, in
superstition.  With what awe did I handle charms like this!  Can it be
possible that my poor child has been wrought upon by such jugglery?
What do you know about it?"

"No more than that the charm and the poison were hidden in her bosom."

"It is hard to trouble a dying man," said Toussaint, "but the survivor
must be cared for.  If Moyse has poisoned her mind, as I much fear, he
would have poisoned her body--But no--it is an atrocious thought.  If I
wrong him--if his love for her is faithful, he will be glad to tell me
what he knows, that her sick mind may be well tended.  Father Laxabon is
coming presently, to go to Moyse, and leave him no more.  I will go with
him."

"How you suffer!  How you must suffer!" said Therese, again speaking her
thoughts, as she looked in his face.

"It is worse than going to my death," replied he; "but for my child's
sake--for my poor brother's sake, too--it must be done."

He could say no more.  Till Father Laxabon came, he paced the room--he
listened at the chamber-door--he went out upon the balcony, to hide, as
Therese well understood, his tears of agony.  He again entered, listened
again at the chamber-door, and, hastily approaching the table, took up
the phial, saying--

"Are you certain that this is all?  Are you certain that she only
sleeps, and is not dying--or dead?"

"Indeed, I am not certain," exclaimed Therese, starting up, and softly
entering the chamber.  Toussaint followed with the lamp, shading it
carefully with his hand.

"Here is no pain," whispered Therese.  "She breathes quietly.  There is
no pain.  Satisfy yourself."

She took the light from his hand, and saw him stoop above his sleeping
child, extending his hands over her, as if in the act of prayer or
blessing.

"No pain, thank God!" he repeated, as they returned to the salon, where
they found Father Laxabon.

"Are you prepared, father, to deal with a spirit as perturbed as that of
the dead who cannot rest?"

"Christ will strengthen me for my office, my son."

"And the other sufferers?"

"My brethren are engaged with them.  Every man of the black troops will
be shriven this night."

"Are there more doomed?" asked Therese, faintly.

"There are.  There are many guilty; and of some I must make an example.
They know that they are guilty; but they know not yet which and how many
are to be spared.  The discipline of this night will, I trust, impress
upon them that principle of our revolution which they have hitherto
failed to learn, or have been tempted to forget.  This night, father,
will establish your precept and mine, and that of our Master--no
retaliation.  If not, may God direct us, by whatever suffering, to some
other method of teaching it; for, at whatever cost, it must be learned!
Let us begone."

"One moment," exclaimed Therese, in agitation.  "You have not told me
when--where--"

"He dies on the Place, at sunrise--a military, not an ignominious death.
Father Laxabon and I shall both be near at hand when Genifrede wakes.
Your task shall be shared, though we must leave you now."

Moyse had been permitted to remain in the same apartment which had been
assigned to him after his arrest.  When he heard the key turn in the
lock, he sprang from his seat to the door, exclaiming--

"You have come at last!  Oh, Genifrede! to have kept me waiting this
last night--"

He turned, and walked back to his seat, when he saw his uncle and the
priest.

"You expected Genifrede?" asked Toussaint.

"I did--naturally."

"She is asleep, and she must not be awakened.  You would be the last to
wish it, Moyse."

"Must not be awakened," repeated Moyse to himself, with something of
doubt in his tone--something of triumph in his countenance.

"Perhaps you think," said Toussaint, fixing his eyes on the young man's
face, "that she cannot be awakened.  Perhaps you think that she may have
drunk the red water?"

"She has told, then.  A curse upon woman's cowardice and woman's
treachery!  Who would not have sworn that if ever a woman loved,
Genifrede loved me?  And now, when put to the test--"

"Now, when put to the test," interrupted Toussaint, "my poor child was
prepared to die with you, though you had perplexed her mind with
superstition--terrified her with spells and charms--"

"You do not know her, uncle.  She herself told me that she dared not die
with me, though it was the only--"

"And you wished it--you required it!  You have striven to destroy her,
body and soul, because you yourself were lost--and now you curse a
woman's cowardice and treachery!  I leave you with Father Laxabon.
Hasten to confess and cleanse your soul, Moyse; for never soul needed it
more.  I leave you my pity and my forgiveness, and I engage for
Genifrede's."

"Stop!" cried Moyse, "I have something to ask.  Who has dared to keep
Genifrede from me?  She is mine."

"Think of her no more, except to implore Heaven's pardon for your intent
towards her."  And Toussaint produced the ivory ring and phial.

"Yes," exclaimed Moyse, "with that ring we obtained that water, which we
were to have drunk together."

"Here, then, I break the bond by which she was yours."  And Toussaint
crushed the ring to dust with the heel of his boot, and dashed the phial
against the ceiling, from whence the poisonous water sprinkled the
floor.

"You spoke of treachery just now," said Moyse.  "How do you propose to
answer to my father for the charge he left you in me?"

"Be silent, my poor son," said Father Laxabon.  "Do not spend your
remaining moments in aggravating your crimes."

"A few minutes' patience, father.  I never before ventured to speak
freely to my uncle.  Not on account of any severity of his--he never was
severe to me--but on account of a certain awe I felt of him--an awe
which the events of this day have had a wonderful power to dispel."

"It is well," said Toussaint.  "There should be no awe of the creature
when but a moment's darkness separates one from the Creator.  Speak
freely and fearlessly, Moyse."

"I ask," said Moyse, in a somewhat softened tone, "how you will answer
to my father for the charge he left you in me?"

"Not by revealing to him the vices of the spirit he gave me to guide.
If your father's heart must be broken for you, it shall be for having
thus lost a noble and gallant son, and not for--But it is no time for
reproach from me.  Let me go now, my poor boy."

"Not yet, uncle.  It is far from sunrise yet.  How do you mean to report
of me to Genifrede?  Will you make her detest me?  Will you work upon
her fears--her fears of my ghost--to make her seek refuge with another?
Will you trample on the memory of the dead, to drive her into the arms
of some living lover, that you may no longer be reminded of the poor
wretch that you first fostered, and then murdered?"

"Leave us!" said Laxabon to Toussaint.  "He is desperate.  Leave him to
me, that he may not plunge deeper into sin with every word he speaks."

"Presently, father.--Moyse, what Genifrede hears of you will be
according to what Father Laxabon has to report of your last hours.  Be
assured that I shall not interpose between you and her.  It rests with
yourself to justify her love, and engage her affections to your memory.
She has been laid to sleep this night, not out of enmity to you, but to
save her brain.  As Providence has decreed, it has also saved her life.
When she awakes, she will regard you as a martyr to a professional
necessity.  A woman's love is sanctified and made immortal when baptised
in the blood of martyrdom.  Hers may be so, if your last moments are
full of holy contrition, and purged from passion.  Of Father Laxabon,
and not of me, will Genifrede inquire concerning you."

"This is kind--this is generous," said Moyse, looking wistfully in his
uncle's face.

"And now," said Toussaint, "I have to ask you to be generous to me.  I
need and implore your pardon, Moyse.  While you were yet weak and
wayward, I neglected the necessary watch over you.  Too prone to ease
and satisfaction, for my child's sake and my own, I too soon concluded
you a man, and imposed upon you the duties of a man.  Your failure is my
condemnation.  I have cut short your discipline, and enabled you to
throw away your life.  All this, and much more, am I answerable for.
Whether or not God may have mercy, can you yield me your pardon?  I
implore it, Moyse."

Moyse gazed at him in astonishment, and then cast himself at his uncle's
feet, clinging to his knees, and crying--

"Save me! uncle, save me!  You can--you will--"

"No, Moyse, I will not--I cannot," declared Toussaint, in a voice which
silenced even that most piercing of all sounds--the cry for life.

"Not one word!" continued L'Ouverture.  "Keep your entreaties for Him
who alone can help you.  Kneel to Him alone.  Rise, Moyse, and only say,
if you can say it, that your last prayer for me shall be for pardon."

The awe of man was not destroyed in Moyse.  He looked humbly upon the
ground, as he again stood before his uncle, and said--

"My destruction is my own work; and I have felt this throughout.  But if
you have ever done me wrong, may it be forgotten before God, as it is by
me!  I know of no such wrong."

"Thank God!" cried Toussaint, pressing him to his breast.  "This is the
temper which will win mercy."

"Leave us now," said Father Laxabon, once more; and this time he was
obeyed.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

ALL EAR.

Therese was struck with awe as she stood, from time to time, beside the
bed on which lay Genifrede.  The room was so darkened that nothing was
to be seen; but there she lay, breathing calmly, motionless,
unconscious, while the blessings and hopes of her young life were
falling fast into ruins around her.  It seemed treacherous, cruel, thus
to beguile her of that tremendous night--to let those last hours of the
only life she prized pass away unused--to deprive her of the last
glances of those eyes which were presently to be dim in death--of the
latest tones of that voice which soon would never speak more.  It seemed
an irreparable injury to rob her of these hours of intense life, and to
substitute for them a blank and barren sleep.  But it was done.  It was
done to save her intellect; it had probably saved her life; and she
could not now be wakened to any purpose.  With sickening heart, Therese
saw the moonlight disturbed by grey light from the east.  In a few
minutes, the sun would leap up from the sea, to quench not only the
gleams of moon and star, but the more sacred lamp of human life.  Brief
as was always the twilight there, never had the gushing in of light
appeared so hasty, so peremptory as now.  By the rousing up of the
birds, by the stir of the breezes, by the quick unfolding of the
flowers, it seemed as if Nature herself had turned against her wretched
children, and was impatient till their doom was fulfilled.  Therese
resolved to return no more to the chamber till all should be over, lest
light and sound should enter with her, and the sufferer be roused too
soon.

As the yellow rays shone in fuller and fuller, the watcher's nerves were
so stretched, that though she wrapped her head in her shawl as she sat,
she felt as if the rustle of every leaf, the buzz of every insect-wing
in the gardens, reached her ear.  She heard at intervals the tap of a
distant drum, and, she was certain, a discharge of firearms--not in a
volley from the Place d'Armes, as she had expected, but further off, and
mere dropping shot.  This occurred so often, that she was satisfied it
was not the execution; and, while she drew a deep breath, hardly knew
whether to feel relieved or not.  The door from the corridor presently
opened and closed again, before she could throw back the shawl from her
face.  She flew to the door, to see if any one was there who could give
her news.  Monsieur Pascal was walking away toward the further end.
When she issued forth, he turned and apologised for having interrupted
her, believing that the salon would be unoccupied at this early hour.

"Tell me--only tell me," said she, "whether it is over."

"Not the principal execution--it is about going forward now.  I came
away--I saw what melted my soul; and I could endure no more."

"You saw L'Ouverture?" said Madame Dessalines, anxiously.

Monsieur Pascal went back with her into the salon, as glad to relieve
his mind as she was eager to hear.

"I saw," said he, "what I never could have conceived of, and would never
have believed upon report.  I have seen man as a god among his
fellow-men."

A gleam of satisfaction lighted up Madame Dessalines' face, through its
agony.

"It was too touching, too mournful to be endured," resumed Monsieur
Pascal.  "The countenances of those poor creatures will haunt me to my
dying hour.  Never was man idolised like L'Ouverture.  For him, men go
willingly to their deaths--not in the excitement of a common danger; not
for glory or for a bright future--but solitary, in ignominy, in the
light of a calm sunrise, with the eyes of a condemning multitude upon
them.  Without protest, without supplication--as it appears, without
objection--they stoop to death at his word."

"I do not know--I do not understand what has been done," said Therese.
"But does not every black know that L'Ouverture has no private
interests--nothing at heart but the good of us all?"

"That is the spell," replied Pascal.  "This sacrifice of his nephew will
confirm it with my countrymen, as well as with yours, for ever.  These
thirteen others--for he has sacrificed thirteen of the soldiers, for
dereliction of duty in the late rising--these thirteen are from the
garrison of Cap, chiefly, though it is said two or three are from Limbe.
All the soldiery from these two places, and from Port Dauphin, are upon
the Place.  L'Ouverture stood in the midst and addressed them.  He told
them that it was needless to explain to them what they had been learning
from his whole course of conduct, since he was chosen by the blacks to
lead and govern them.  It was needless to insist on the protection due
to every inhabitant of the colony, and especially the whites; and on the
primary duty of a liberated race--that of keeping the peace.  They knew
their duty as well as he did; and those who had violated it should
suffer the long-declared and inevitable punishment of death.  All knew
that everything was prepared on the rampart, near at hand.  L'Ouverture
walked slowly along each line of the soldiery; and I declare to you,
Madame, that though all knew that he was selecting victims for instant
death, there was passionate love in every face."

"I believe it," said Therese.  "And he?"

"He was calm; but a face of deeper sorrow never did I see.  He is ten
years older since last night.  He spoke aloud the names of the most
guilty, according to their own previous account of themselves to him,
and the committee, of investigation."

"And no one of the thirteen resisted?"

"Not one.  One by one they joined their hands, bowed their heads humbly
before him, and repaired where he pointed--to be shot.  There was a
spell upon me.  I could not come away, though feeling at every moment as
if I could endure no more.  I did not, however, stay to see General
Moyse brought out--"

As he was speaking, there was heard the heavy roll of drums at a
distance, followed by a volley of musketry.

"That is it," cried Monsieur Pascal; and he was gone.  Therese sank back
upon a sofa, and again drew her shawl over her head.  She desired, in
the sickness of her heart, never to see the daylight more.

She knew not how long it was before the door was again gently opened.
She did not move; but she presently heard Father Laxabon's soft voice,
saying--

"Pardon, Madame, but I am compelled to ask where is Mademoiselle
L'Ouverture?"

"She is asleep," said Therese, rousing herself--"asleep, if indeed she
be not dead.  If this last sound did not rouse her, I think the trumpet
of doom will scarcely reach her soul."

This last sound had roused Genifrede.  She did not recognise it; she was
not aware what had wakened her; but she had started up, supposed it
night, but felt so oppressed that she sprang from the bed, with a
confused wonder at finding herself dressed, and threw open the door to
the salon.  There she now stood, bewildered with the sudden light, and
looking doubtful whether to advance or go back.

"My daughter--" said Father Laxabon.  She came forward with a docile and
wistful look.  "My daughter," he continued, "I bring you some comfort."

"Comfort?" she repeated, doubtingly.

"Not now, Father," interposed Therese.  "Spare her."

"Spare me?" repeated Genifrede in the same tone.

"I bring her comfort," said the father, turning reprovingly to Madame
Dessalines.  "His conflict is over, my daughter," he continued,
advancing to Genifrede.  "His last moments were composed; and as for his
state of mind in confession--"

He was stopped by a shriek so appalling, that he recoiled as if shot,
and supported himself against the wall.  Genifrede rushed back to the
chamber, and drove something heavy against the door.  Therese was there
in an instant, listening, and then imploring, in a voice which, it might
be thought, no one could resist--

"Let me in, love!  It is Therese.  No one else shall come.  If you love
me, let me in."

There was no answer.

"You have killed her, I believe," she said to the priest, who was
walking up and down in great disturbance--not with himself, but with the
faithless creature of passion he had to deal with.

"The windows!" exclaimed Therese, vexed not to have thought of this
before.  She stepped out upon the balcony.  One of the chamber-windows
was open, and she entered.  No one was there.  Genifrede must have fled
down the steps from the balcony into the gardens; and there Therese
hastened after her.  In one of the fenced walks leading to the fountain,
she saw the fluttering of her clothes.

"The reservoir!" thought Therese, in despair.

She was not mistaken.  Genifrede stood on the brink of the deep and
brimming reservoir--her hands were clasped above her head for the
plunge, when a strong hand seized her arm, and drew her irresistibly
back.  In ungovernable rage she turned, and saw her father.

"They say," she screamed, "that every one worships you.  Not true now!
Never true more!  I hate--I curse--"

He held up his right hand with the action of authority which had awed
her childhood.  It awed her now.  Her voice sank into a low shuddering
and muttering.

"That any one should have dared to tell you--that any one should have
interfered between me and my poor child!" he said, as if involuntarily,
while seating her on the fresh grass.  He threw himself down beside her,
holding her hands, and covering them with kisses.

"This sod is fresh and green," said he; "but would we were all lying
under it!"

"Do _you_ say so?" murmured Genifrede.

"God forgive me!" he replied.  "But we are all wretched."

"You repent, then?" said Genifrede.  "Well you may!  There are no more
such, now you have killed him.  You should have repented sooner: it is
too late now."

"I do not repent, Genifrede; but I mourn, my child."

"There are no more such," pursued she.  "He was gallant."

"He was."

"He was all life: there was no deadness, no coldness--he was all life."

"He was, my child."

"And such a lover!" she continued, with something of a strange proud
smile.

"He was a lover, Genifrede, who made your parents proud."

"Such a soldier!" she dreamed on.  "War was his sport, while I trembled
at home.  He had a soldier's heart."

Her father was silent; and she seemed to miss his voice, though she had
not appeared conscious of his replies.  She started, and sprang to her
feet.

"You will go home now, Genifrede," said her father.  "With Madame
Dessalines you will go.  You will go to your mother and sister."

"Home!" she exclaimed with loathing.  "Yes, I must go home," she said,
hurriedly.  "You love Pongaudin--you call it paradise.  I wish you joy
of it now!  You have put an evil spirit into it.  I wish you joy of your
paradise!"

She disengaged herself from him as she spoke, and walked away.  Therese,
who had drawn back on seeing that she was in her father's care, now
intercepted her path, met her, and drew her arm within hers.  Toussaint,
who was following, retreated for a moment, to ease his agony by a brief
prayer for his child, and for guidance and strength.  Having
acknowledged with humiliation that he found his mission well-nigh too
hard for him, and imploring for the wounded in spirit the consolation
which he would willingly purchase for his brother and his child by a
life of woe for himself, he repaired to his chamber of audience; where,
for the rest of the morning, he appeared wholly engrossed by the affairs
of the citizens of Cap.  The steadiness of his attention to business was
felt by his still agitated secretary as a rebuke to his own wandering
thoughts.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

PERCH OF THE RAVEN.

Euphrosyne's life in the convent was dull and weary.  It would probably
have been so anywhere, for some time after the old man's death: but
elsewhere there would have been more to do and to amuse herself with.
Every one was kind to her--too kind.  She had been accustomed to the
voice of chiding during all the years that she had lived with her
grandfather; and she did not mind it.  It would now have been something
of a relief, something welcome and familiar, to have been called "child"
and "little fool" at times, instead of being told at every turn that she
was an angel and a love, and finding that she was every one's pet, from
the abbess to old Raphael.

The kindness of the household had begun from the moment the poor girl
appeared, after having been consoled by Father Gabriel, and visited by
Pierre, and the guardian to whose care her grandfather had confided her
person and her property.  Pierre had engaged to see her daily till the
furniture should have been sold, and the house shut up, and he himself
about to embark for France, with the savings of his long service.  Her
guardian, Monsieur Critois, knew but little of young people, and how to
talk to them.  He had assured her that he mourned extremely the loss of
his old acquaintance--the acquaintance of so many years--and so lost.
He declared his desire of discharging his office of guardian so as to
prove himself worthy of the trust, and his hope that he and his ward
should be very good friends.  At present, it was his wish that she
should remain where she was; and he asked whether she did not find every
one very kind to her.  Euphrosyne could just say, "Yes;" but she was
crying too much to be able to add, that she hoped she should not have to
remain in the convent very long.  Monsieur Critois saw that she was
struggling to say something: but, after waiting a minute, he stroked her
hair, promised to come again some day soon, hoped she would cheer up,
had no doubt she would be very happy--and was gone, glad to have done
with sobbing girls for this day.

When the gates had closed upon him, the petting began.  The abbess
decreed that Euphrosyne should have the sole charge of her mocking-bird.
Sister Angelique, who made the prettiest artificial flowers in the
world, invited her to her apartment at all reasonable hours, when she
might have a curiosity to see to learn the process.  Sister Celestine
had invented a new kind of comfit which she begged Euphrosyne to try,
leaving a paper of sweetmeats on her table for that purpose.  Old
Raphael had gained leave to clear a parterre in the garden which was to
be wholly hers, and where he would rear such flowers as she particularly
admired.  Father Gabriel himself, after pointing out to her the
uncertainty of life, the sudden surprises of death, and the care with
which it becomes social beings to discharge their duties to each other,
since they know not how soon they may be parted--the serious Father
Gabriel himself recommended her to amuse herself, and to remember how
her grandfather had liked to see her gay.  She had, no doubt, been a
good girl on the whole; and she could not now do better than continue
the conduct which had pleased the departed in the days that were gone.

Petted people generally prove perverse; and so, in the opinion of the
universal household, did Euphrosyne.  There could be no doubt of her
love for her grandfather.  One need but see the sudden tears that
sprang, twenty times in a day, when any remembrance of him was awakened.
One need but watch her wistful looks cast up towards his balcony,
whenever she was in the garden.  Yet, when any one expressed indignation
against his murderers, she was silent, or she ran away, or she protested
against it.  Such was the representation which sister Claire made to her
reverend mother, on the first opportunity.

"I was not aware that it was exactly so," replied the abbess.  "It
appears to me that she dislikes to hear any parties made answerable for
the murder but those by whose hands it was actually done.  She--"

The abbess stopped, and sister Claire started, at the sound of musketry.

"Another shot!" said the abbess.  "It is a fearful execution.  I should
have been glad to have removed this poor child out of hearing of these
shots; but I had no notice of what was to happen, till the streets were
too full for her to appear in them."

"A piece of L'Ouverture's haste!" said sister Claire.

"A fresh instance, perhaps, of his wise speed," observed the abbess.
"Events seem to show that he understands the conduct of affairs better
than you and I, my daughter."

"Again!  Hark!  Oh, mercy!" cried sister Claire, as the sound of a
prolonged volley reached them.

"Let us hope it is the last," said the abbess, with changing colour.
"Christ save their sinful souls!"

The door opened, and Euphrosyne entered, in excessive agitation.

"Madame," she cried, gasping for breath, "do you hear that?  Do you know
what it is?  They have shot General Moyse!  Father Gabriel says so.--Oh
no, no!  L'Ouverture never would do anything so cruel."

Sister Claire looked at the abbess.

"My daughter," said the abbess, "L'Ouverture's duty is to execute
justice."

"Oh, Genifrede!  Poor, poor Genifrede!  She will die too.  I hope she is
dead."

"Hush, my child!  Her life is in God's hands."

"Oh, how cruel! how cruel!" the girl went on, sobbing.

"What would L'Ouverture say," interposed sister Claire, "if he knew that
you, of all people, called him cruel?  Have you to-day put on this?" she
continued, calling Euphrosyne's attention to her new mourning; "and do
you call it cruel to execute justice on the rebels and their officers?"

"It is a natural and amiable grief in Euphrosyne," said the abbess; "and
if it is not quite reasonable, we can give her time to reflect.  She is
among friends, who will not report the words of her hours of sorrow."

"You may--you may," cried Euphrosyne.  "You may tell the whole world
that it is cruel to--to--They were to have been married so very soon!--
Afra wrote me all about it."

The abbess repeated what she had said about L'Ouverture's office, and
the requirements of justice.

"Justice! justice!" exclaimed Euphrosyne.  "There has been no justice
till now; and so the first act is nothing but cruelty."

The abbess with a look dismissed sister Claire, who, by her report of
Euphrosyne's rebellion against justice, sent in Father Gabriel.

"Euphrosyne thinks, father," reported the abbess, "that these negroes,
in consideration of their ignorance, and of their anger at having once
been slaves, should be excused for whatever they may do now, in
revenge."

"I am surprised," said Father Gabriel.

So was Euphrosyne when she heard her argument thus stated.

"I only mean," said she, striving to subdue her sobs; "I only mean that
I wish sister Claire, and sister Benoite, and all of them, would not
want me to be glad and revengeful."

"Glad and revengeful!" repeated Father Gabriel.  "That would be
difficult."

"It makes me very miserable--it can do no good now--it could not bring
grandpapa to life again, if every negro in Limbe were shot," she
continued, as tears rained down her cheeks.  "Dear grandpapa never
wished any ill to anybody--he never did anybody any harm--"

The priest and the abbess exchanged glances.

"Why do you suppose these wretched blacks killed him, my dear?"

"I do not know why they rose, this one particular time.  But I believe
they have always risen because the whites have been proud and cruel;
because the whites used to put them in chains, and whip them, and part
mothers and children.  After doing all this, and after bringing them up
ignorant and without religion, we expect them to forgive everything that
has passed, while we will not forgive them ourselves.  But I will--I
will forgive them my share.  For all that you religious people may say,
I will forgive them: and I am not afraid of what grandpapa would think.
I hope he is in a place now where there is no question about forgiving
those who have injured us.  The worst thing is, the thing that I cannot
understand is, how L'Ouverture could do anything so cruel."

"I have a word to say to you, my dear," said the priest, with a sign to
the abbess.

"Oh, father!" replied the abbess, in an imploring tone.

"We must bring her to a right view, reverend sister.  Euphrosyne, if
your grandfather had not been the kind master you suppose him--if he had
been one of the cruel whites you spoke of just now, if his own slaves
had always hated him, and--"

"Do stop!" said Euphrosyne, colouring crimson.  "I cannot bear to hear
you speak so, father."

"You must bear, my child, to listen to what it is good for you to hear.
If he had been disliked by every black in the colony, and they had
sought his life out of revenge, would you still be angry that justice
was done, and ungrateful that he is avenged?"

"You talk of avenging--you, a Christian priest!" said Euphrosyne.  "You
talk of justice--you, who slander the dead!"

"Peace, my daughter," said the abbess, very gently.  "Remember where you
are, and whom you speak to."

"Remember where my grandfather is," cried Euphrosyne.  "Remember that he
is in his grave, and that I am left to speak for him.  However," she
said--and, in these few moments, a thousand confirmations of the
priest's words had rushed upon her memory--a thousand tokens of the
mutual fear and hatred of her grandfather and the black race, a thousand
signs of his repugnance to visit Le Bosquet--"however," she resumed, in
a milder tone, and with an anxious glance at Father Gabriel's face,
"Father Gabriel only said `if'--_if_ all that he described had been so."

"True, my child," replied the abbess: "Father Gabriel only said `if it
had been so.'"

"And if it had," exclaimed Euphrosyne, who did not wish to hear the
father speak again at the moment--"if it had been so, it would have been
wicked in the negroes to do that act in revenge; but it could never,
never excuse us from forgiving them--from pitying them because they had
been made cruel and revengeful.  I am sure I wish they had all lived--
that they might live many, many years, till they could forget those
cruel old times, and, being old men themselves, might feel what it is to
touch an old man's life.  This is the kind of punishment I wish them;
and I am sure it would be enough."

"It is indeed said," observed the abbess, "`Vengeance is mine; I will
repay, saith the Lord.'"

"And oh! poor Genifrede!" pursued Euphrosyne.  "She no more wished ill
to my parent than I do to hers; and her lover--it was not he that did
it: and yet--Oh, Father Gabriel, are you sure that that firing--that
last volley--"

"It was certainly the death stroke of Moyse.  I perceive how it is, my
child.  I perceive that your friendships among this new race have
blinded your eyes, so that you cannot see that these executions are,
indeed, God's avenging of the murder by which you are made a second time
an orphan."

"Do you think L'Ouverture right, then?  I should be glad to believe that
he was not cruel--dreadfully cruel."

"There is no doubt of L'Ouverture's being wise and right--of his having
finally assured the most unwilling of the inhabitants of their security,
and his stern justice.  There is no doubt that L'Ouverture is right."

"I could not have believed," said the abbess, "that my daughter would
have required a justification of anything done by L'Ouverture."

"Nor I," said Euphrosyne, sighing.

"Under him," said Father Gabriel, "there is less crime in the colony
than, I verily believe, in any other part of the empire.  Under him have
homes become sacred, children are instructed, and brethren are taught to
dwell together in unity."

"As," said the abbess, "when he stopped in his journey to greet an old
negro of ninety-nine, and reconcile to him two who had offended out of
his many children.  L'Ouverture is never in so much haste but that he
can pause to honour old ago: never too busy for works of mercy.  If the
peace-makers are blessed, so is he."

"And where," continued the father, "where are the poor?  We can observe
his continual admonition to works of mercy, by nursing the sick, and
consoling the afflicted; but we have no longer any poor.  By his wisdom,
he has won over all to labour.  The fields are thronged with labourers:
the bays are crowded with ships: the store-houses are overflowing with
food and merchandise: and there is a portion for all."

"And it was the French," said Euphrosyne, "who made this last commotion.
If they had let L'Ouverture alone, how happy we might all have been!
Now, Genifrede will never be happy again.  If L'Ouverture could only
have forgiven this once!  But, father, I have no comfort--and never
shall have comfort, as long as I think that men have been murdered for
injuring us."

"Pray for comfort, my child.  In prayer you will find consolation."

"I dare not pray, now this has happened.  If they were but alive, how I
would pray for them!"

"They are alive, my daughter, and where they much need your prayers.
Pray for them, and your intercession may be heard."

Euphrosyne saw that her feelings were not understood; and she said no
more.  She listened to all the teachings that were offered her, and
reserved her doubts and troubles for Afra's ear.  Afra would tell her
whether it could be right in such a Christian as L'Ouverture to render
violence for violence.  As for what the father and the abbess said about
the effect of example, and the necessity and the benefit of assuring and
conciliating the whites, by sacrificing negro offenders for their sakes,
she dissented from it altogether.  She had witnessed Toussaint's power--
the power with which his spirit of gentleness and forbearance endowed
him; and she believed that, if he would but try, he would find he could
govern better by declaring always for the right and against the wrong,
and leaving vengeance to God, than by the violent death of all the
ignorant and violent men in the island.  She would ask Afra.  She was
pretty sure Afra would think as she did: and, if so, the time might
come--it made her breathless to think of it, but she could not help
thinking of it every day--the time might come when she might ask
Toussaint himself what he thought was exactly meant, in all cases, by
forgiving our enemies; and particularly whether this did not extend to
forgiving other people's enemies, and using no vengeance and no violence
at all.

This idea of seeing Afra gained strength under all the circumstances of
her present life.  If Father Gabriel offered her comfort which was no
comfort, or reproved her when she did not feel herself wrong; if the
abbess praised her for anything she had not designed to be particularly
right; if the sisters applauded sayings which she was conscious were not
wise; if her heart ached for her grandfather's voice or countenance; if
Monsieur Critois visited her, or Pierre did not; if her lesson in
history was hard, or her piece of needle-work dull; if her flowers
faded, or her bird sang so finely that she would have been proud for the
world to hear it--the passion for seeing Afra was renewed.  Afra would
explain all she could not understand, would teach her what she wanted to
know.  Afra would blame her where she was aware she was wrong, instead
of bidding her be quit of it with a few prayers, while laying much
heavier stress upon something that she could cure much more easily.
Afra wrote her a few letters, which were read by the abbess before they
were delivered to her; and many more which.  Pierre slipped into her
hand during their occasional interviews.  She herself wrote such
prodigiously long letters to Afra, that to read them through would have
been too great an addition to the reverend mother's business.  She
glanced over the first page and the last; and, seeing that they
contained criticisms on Alexander the Great, and pity for Socrates, and
questions about flower-painting and embroidery, she skipped all that lay
between.

It was not that Euphrosyne did not love and trust the abbess.  She loved
her so as to open to her all but the inner chambers of her heart; and
she trusted her with all but other persons' concerns.  The middle pages
of her letters contained speculation chiefly: speculation, in the first
place, on Afra's future destiny, names and events being shrouded under
mysterious expressions; and, in the second place, on points of morals,
which might be referred to Monsieur Pascal, whose opinion was of great
value.  Euphrosyne had a strong persuasion, all the while, that she
should one day tell her reverend mother the whole.  She knew that she
should not object to her seeing every line that Afra held of hers.
Whatever was clandestine in the correspondence was for the sake of
avoiding restraint, and not because she was ashamed of any of her
thoughts.

One morning the abbess found her in the garden, listlessly watching the
hues of a bright lizard, as it lay panting in the sun.  The abbess put
her arm round her waist, while stooping to look.

"How it glitters!" said she.  "It is a pretty piece of God's handiwork:
but we must leave it now, my dear.  This sun is too hot for you.  Your
chamber, or sister Claire's room, is the fittest place for you at this
hour.  You find your chamber cool?"

"Yes, madam."

"The new ventilator works well?"

"Yes, madam."

"You find--this way, my dear--this alley is the most shady--you find
your little bed comfortable?"

"Yes, madam."

"And your toilet-cover--sister Marie's work--is, I think, extremely
pretty: and the book-shelf that Father Gabriel gave you very convenient.
Your friends here, my dear, are fond of you.  They are anxious to make
you happy."

"They are all very kind to me, madam."

"I am glad you are sensible of it.  You are not of an ungrateful nature,
we all know."

"I hope not: but, madam, I cannot stay here always."

"I was going to say, my dear, that we have not done everything in our
power for you yet.  We must not forget that we grave women must be dull
companions for a girl like you."

"It is not that, reverend mother.  But I cannot stay here always."

"You will find it a very different thing when you have a companion of
your own age, which I hope will be the case very soon.  There is a
negotiation on foot respecting a sweet girl, every way worthy of being
your companion--"

"But, madam, I do not want that--I do not wish for any companion while I
am here.  I had much rather be alone; but--"

"But you would like to leave us--eh?  You would like to be on a
plantation, where you could amuse yourself with playing with the little
negroes, and driving about the country, and visiting your neighbours two
or three times a week?"

Euphrosyne smiled, and plucked a twig to play with.

"You would like," continued the abbess, "to live with accomplished
people--to have a fine library, to lie on a couch and read during the
hot hours; and to sing gay songs in the piazza in the evening."

Euphrosyne smiled again.

"You would like," the abbess went on, "to dance, night after night, and
to make pic-nic parties to the cacao walks, and to the shore.  You would
like to win over your guardian to let you have your own way in
everything: and, to be sure, in comparison with his house, our
convent--"

"My guardian!" exclaimed Euphrosyne.  "Live at Monsieur Critois'!  Oh
no!"  And she laughed as she went on--

"He would be telling me every day that we should be very good friends.
He would be saying all day long that it was his desire fully to
discharge his duty to me.  I can hardly help shaking off his hand now,
when he strokes my hair: and, if it came to his doing it every morning,
we should certainly quarrel.  They say Madame Critois never speaks; so I
suppose she admires his conversation too much to interrupt it.  There
she and I should never agree.--Live at my guardian's!  Oh no!"

"You were thinking of some other house while I was describing your
guardian's, my dear.  What were you thinking of?  Where would you live?"

Euphrosyne plucked another twig, having pulled the first to pieces.  She
smiled again, blushed, and said she would tell her reverend mother very
soon what home she was thinking of: she could not tell to-day; but in a
little while--

"In the meantime," said the abbess, with a scrutinising gaze,--"in the
meantime, I conclude Father Gabriel knows all that is in your mind."

"You will know in good time what I am thinking of, madam: everybody will
know."

The abbess was troubled.

"This is beginning early," she said, as if thinking aloud; "this is
beginning early with the mysteries and entanglements of life and the
world!  How wonderful it is to look on, to be a witness of these things
for two or three successive generations!  How every young creature
thinks her case something wholly new--the emotions of her awakened heart
something that God never before witnessed, and that man never conceived
of!  After all that has been written about love, upon the cavern walls
of Hindoo temples, and in the hieroglyphics of old Egypt, and printed
over all the mountains and valleys of the world by that deluge which was
sent to quench unhallowed love, every young girl believes in her day
that something unheard-of has happened when the dream has fallen upon
her.  My dear child, listen to one who knows more of life than you do--
to one who would have you happy, not only in the next world, but in
this."

"Thank you, reverend mother."

"Love is holy and blessed, my dear, when it comes in its due season--
when it enters into a mind disciplined for new duties, and a heart
waiting for new affections.  In one who has no mother to help and
comfort--"

"No mother, it is true," said Euphrosyne.

"The mother is the parent naturally most missed," said the abbess,
supposing she was reading her pupil's mind.  "Where there is no mother
by a young girl's side, and no brothers and sisters to serve, the fancy
and the heart are apt to fix prematurely on some object--too likely, in
that case, to be one which will deceive and fail.  But, my dear, such a
young girl owes duty to herself, if God has seen fit to make her
solitary in the world."

"One cannot say solitary," interposed Euphrosyne, "or without duties."

"You are right, my love.  No one is, indeed, solitary in life, (blessed
be God!) nor without duties.  As I was going to say, such a young girl's
business is to apply herself diligently to her education, during the
years usually devoted to instruction.  This is the work appointed to her
youth.  If, while her mind is yet ignorant, her judgment inexperienced,
and her tastes actually unformed, she indulges any affection or fancy
which makes her studies tedious, her companions dull, and her mind and
spirits listless, she has fallen into a fearful snare."

"How long then would you have a girl's education go on?  And if her
lover be very particularly wise and learned, do not you think she may
learn more from him than in any other way?  And if she be not dull and
listless, but very happy--"

"Every girl," interrupted the abbess, with a grave smile, "thinks her
lover the wisest man in the world: and no girl in love would exchange
her dreams for the gayest activity of the fancy-free."

"Well, but, as to the age," persisted Euphrosyne; "how soon--"

"That depends upon circumstances, my dear.  But in all cases, I consider
sixteen too early."

"Sixteen!  Yes.  But nineteen--or, one may say, twenty.  Twenty, next
month but one."

"My dear," said the abbess, stopping short, "you do not mean to say--"

"Indeed, madam," said Euphrosyne, very earnestly, "Afra will be twenty
in two months.  I know her ago to a day, and--"

"And you have been speaking of Mademoiselle Raymond all this time!
Well, well--"

"And you were thinking of me, I do believe.  Oh, madam, how could you!
Why, I never saw anybody."

"I was wondering how it could be," said the abbess, striving to conceal
her amusement and satisfaction.  "I was surprised that you should have
seen any one yet; and I was going to give you a lecture about
half-confidences with Father Gabriel."

"And I could not conceive what Father Gabriel had to do with Afra's
affairs, or how you came to know anything about it.  I have let it out
now, however; and I do not know what Afra will say."

"You have not told me who the gentleman is, you know; so there is not
much harm done.  No, do not tell me, my dear, till Mademoiselle Raymond
desires it."

"Oh, I may as well, now you know so much.  I dare say Afra would have no
objection; particularly as you will then understand what I meant about
living somewhere else.  When you talked of a fine library," she
continued, laughing, "how could I suppose you were thinking of any in
the colony but Monsieur Pascal's?"

"So he is the gentleman," said the abbess.  "How times are changed!  A
lady of colour may be Madame Pascal now, without reproach."

"I am glad it is out," said Euphrosyne, gaily.  "I can speak now to
somebody about Afra.  Oh, madam, you do not know, you cannot imagine,
how they love one another."

"Cannot I?"--and the abbess sighed.

"And I may look forward to living with them.  They say I may, madam.
They say I must.  And surely my guardian will have no objection.  Do you
think he can, madam?"

"Indeed I do not know.  I am acquainted with the parties only by
hearsay.  Report speaks highly of Monsieur Pascal.  Some persons at
Paris, and some formerly in office here, are surprised at his
unqualified adherence to the Ouverture system; but I never heard
anything worse of him than that."

"And that is nothing but good, as any one would say who really knew all
those dear people.  L'Ouverture and Monsieur Pascal are almost like
father and son.  Afra says--"

"My dear," interposed the abbess, "you wondered how I knew of this
affair.  You must allow me to wonder how you have gained all this
intelligence.  Mademoiselle Raymond must have crossed her letters with
sympathetic inks, which the warmth of your friendship brought out; for
not a syllable of what you have told me have her letters conveyed to
me."

The abbess did not mean to press for an answer; so indulgent was she
made by the complacency of discovering that her charge was not entangled
in a love affair.  While Euphrosyne was blushing, and hunting for a
reply which should be true and yet guarded, she was relieved by the
rapid approach of sister Benoite.

"Something is amiss," said the abbess, assuming the look of calmness
with which she was wont to await bad news.  "What has happened to alarm
you, my daughter?"

"There is a message, reverend mother," said the breathless nun, "from
Madame Oge.  She invites herself to our evening repast.  If you cannot
receive her to-day, she will come to-morrow."

"She shall be welcome," said the abbess; without, however, much of the
spirit of welcome in her tone.

"So this is our calamity!" said Euphrosyne, laughing.

"There is calamity at hand, assuredly," sighed sister Benoite.  "Nay,
nay, my daughter.  This is superstition," said the abbess.

"Whatever it be, reverend mother, do we not all, does not every one
quake when Madame Oge comes abroad?"

"It is but seldom that she does," said the abbess, "and it is our part
to make her welcome."

"But seldom, indeed, reverend mother.  When all goes well--when the
crops are fine, and the island all at peace, no one hears of Madame Oge.
She keeps within her coffee-groves--"

"Mourning her sons," interposed the abbess.  "But," continued the nun,
"when any disaster is about to happen, we have notice of it by Madame
Oge coming abroad.  She came to this very house the first day of the
meeting of the deputies, in that terrible August of ninety-one.  She
came a day or two before the rising against Hedouville.  She came the
night before the great hurricane of ninety-seven--"

"That was an accident," said the abbess, smiling.  "Then you think it is
not by accident that she always comes out before misfortunes happen?"
asked Euphrosyne, trembling as she spoke.

"By no means, my dear.  It is easily explained.  Madame Oge looks upon
her sons as martyrs in the cause of the mulattoes.  When all goes well,
as all has done, under L'Ouverture's rule, with only a few occasional
troubles--fewer and slighter than might have been expected during such a
change in society as we have witnessed--when all goes well, Madame Oge
feels that her sons are forgotten; and, as my daughter Benoite says, she
mourns them alone in the shades of her coffee-groves.  She seems,
however, to have means of information which persons less interested have
not: and when she has reason to believe that troubles will ensue, she
hopes that the names of her sons will once more be a watchword, for the
humiliation of both blacks and whites; and she comes forth with her
hungry maternal heart, and her quick maternal ear, to catch the first
echo of the names which are for ever mingled with her prayers."

"Can she mingle those names with her prayers, and yet not forgive?"

"My child, is it not so with us all?  Do we not pray for our enemies,
and ask to be forgiven as we forgive, and come out from our closets with
ears open to the fresh slanders of the day, and hearts ready to burn at
the thought of old injuries?  It might be well for us, if we had the
excuse of this wretched woman, whose woes have been such as might
naturally have shaken her reason, and prostrated her will.  If there be
any above others with whom God will be long suffering, it is with the
mother whose children have been torn from her arms to be tortured and
destroyed, and their very names made a term of reproach."

"You think something is going to happen?"

"As my daughter Benoite says, on one occasion there was a hurricane.
To-morrow the sun may rise, or there may be a cloud in the sky."

"Nay, but--" said sister Benoite.

"Nay, but," said the abbess, smiling, "I will have nothing said which
shall make Euphrosyne look upon my guest as a sorceress, or as the
instrument of any evil one.  I wish all my daughters to meet Madame Oge
with cheerfulness.  It is the best I have to offer her,--the
cheerfulness of my family; and that of which she has least at home.  You
hear, Euphrosyne?"

"Madam, you do not mean that I am to see her.  Indeed I cannot,--indeed
I dare not.  It is no disrespect--quite the contrary.  But I could not
hold up my head before one who--"

"Poor Madame Oge, if all said so!" exclaimed the abbess.

"That is true," said Euphrosyne.  "I will be there: but, dear mother, do
not speak particularly to me.  Do not draw her attention upon me."

"I will not, my dear."

"Do you think she will speak angrily of the Ouvertures?  I hope she will
say nothing about poor General Moyse."

"You must hear what she says, be it what it may."

"True.  And it is only for one evening.  But I wish it was over.  I
shall be glad when to-morrow morning is come, and I shall be in this
alley again."

"Meantime, my dear, you have been long enough here for this morning.
Let us go in."

The prospect of any guest was in itself acceptable to the sisterhood.
It gave them something to do, and afforded one day of variety.  The
abbess's parlour and the refectory had to be adorned with fresh flowers.
Napkins, of the workmanship of one sister, were laid beside the plates;
and on the table were fruits gathered by another, sweetmeats made by a
third, and chocolate prepared by the careful hands of a fourth.  Even
the abbess's veil looked whiter, and more exactly put on than usual.
Everything within the walls was in its nicest order some time before
Madame Oge's carriage drew up before the gate.

Two or three of the sisters and Euphrosyne were with the abbess in her
parlour, when Madame Oge entered.  Euphrosyne had permission to bring in
her work; so that she could sit plying her needle, and listening to what
went on, without many nervous feelings about being observed by a person
whom she could become acquainted with only by stealing glances at her
face.

That face, she thought, must in its youth have had much of the beauty
common among mulattoes, if not natural to them, in a favourable climate,
it was now deeply impressed with sorrow.  Every line, every feature,
told of sorrow.  There was no other painful expression in it.  There was
great solemnity, but stillness rather than passion;--nothing which
warranted, in itself, the superstitious fears which the sisters had of
the unhappy lady.  She was handsomely dressed, and her manner was quiet.

The conversation turned first upon the state of the coffee and sugar
crops, about which little could be said, because the prospect of every
kind of produce was excellent.  So much regard was everywhere paid to
the processes of cultivation; and the practice of ten years, under the
vigilant eye of Toussaint and his agents, had so improved the methods of
tillage and the habits of the cultivators, that the bounties of the soil
and climate were improved instead of being intercepted.  Every year,
since the revolution, the harvests had been richer; and this was the
crowning year.

"Yes," said Madame Oge: "we have heard a great deal of all that; and I
fancy we have nearly heard the last of it."

"There must, indeed," replied the abbess, "be some limit to the
fruitfulness of the soil, and to the industry of those who till it: and
it does seem as if the earth could yield no more than it is bringing
forth this year."

"Father Gabriel says," observed sister Claire, "that in his journeys he
could almost believe that the fields sing, and the hills rejoice with
music, as the Scripture says--the cultivators are so hidden among the
corn and the canes, and the groves and the vines, that their songs
really seem to come out of the ground."

"It is in the woods," added sister Benoite, "as if the very trees
shouted--"

She stopped abruptly before the name L'Ouverture, remembering that it
would not be acceptable to all the present company.

"I have no doubt," said Madame Oge, "that all the monkeys and parrots
are taught to shout L'Ouverture.  Like his people, they are quick at
learning that much.  But I imagine there will be something else for
Toussaint to do presently, than teaching the birds of the woods to
praise him."

As no one asked what was likely to happen, she reserved for the present
the news they trembled to hear; and went on--

"It is grievous to see so good a negro as Toussaint lost and spoiled.  I
knew him of old, when he was at Breda: and many a time has Monsieur
Bayou told me that he was the most faithful, decent, clever,
well-mannered negro on the estate."

"I believe he preserves those qualities still," observed the abbess,
reproving with a glance the laugh which was rising at this description
of the Commander-in-chief.

"If those had been masters who ought to have been masters," pursued
Madame Oge, "Toussaint would, no doubt, have been placed at the head of
the negroes: for we knew him well--I and they whom I have lost.  Then,
without insubordination,--without any being lifted out of their proper
places, to put down others--we should have had a vast improvement in the
negroes.  Toussaint would have been made their model, and perhaps would
have been rewarded with his freedom, some day or other, for an example.
This would have satisfied all the ambition he had by nature.  He would
have died a free man, and perhaps have emancipated his family.  As it
is, they will all die slaves: and they will feel it all the harder for
the farce of greatness they have been playing these ten years.  I am
very sorry for them: and I always was; for I foresaw from the beginning
how it would end."

"Do you really imagine that any one thinks of enslaving this wonderful
man again?  And what should make him submit to it?"

"He would sooner lay a train to the root of Cibao, and blow up the
island," exclaimed Euphrosyne.

"Are you one of his party, young lady?  You look too much as if you were
but just landed from France for me to suppose that I was speaking before
a friend of L'Ouverture's.  If you really are lately from France, you
may know that there is a greater than our poor Toussaint, to whom he
must yield at command."

"I have never been at Paris, madame; and I do not believe that there is
a greater than L'Ouverture, there, or anywhere else."

"You have been a happy child, I see: you have lived so retired from our
miserable world as not to have heard of Bonaparte.  It was by Bonaparte,
my dear, for Bonaparte's convenience, and (it is my idea) for his
amusement, that Toussaint was made what he is, and allowed to gallop
about with his trumpeters behind him, for so long.  You look as if you
did not believe me, my dear.  Well: time will show."

"I thought," said Euphrosyne, "that Toussaint was the First of the
Blacks before Bonaparte was the First of the Whites.  I have no doubt,
however, that it has been very convenient to Bonaparte, and very
surprising to him and everybody, that the colony has been so perfectly
well governed by one from whom they could have expected nothing.  I hope
Bonaparte will be too wise and too grateful to injure him, or even to
hurt his feelings; and I feel very sure that Bonaparte is not strong
enough, with all the world to help him, to make L'Ouverture and his
family slaves again."

"We shall see.  Even I may live to see it; and I have no doubt you will.
Bonaparte is going to try; and, if he cannot, as you say, do it by
himself, he may now persuade all the world to help him: for he is making
peace on all hands."

"You have that news from France?" inquired the abbess.

"I have it from a sure quarter--never mind how.  It will soon be
generally known that the preliminaries of peace between France and
England are signed: and I happen to know two things more: that Bonaparte
has agreed to maintain negro slavery in Martinique, Guadaloupe, and
Cayenne: and that--(pray listen, young lady)--he declares to the English
that he can do what he pleases in Saint Domingo.  I wish he could see
that angry blush.  Pray look at her, Madame!  I see she thinks Bonaparte
a very impertinent fellow."

"I do," replied Euphrosyne; "and I hope he will know better, and feel
better, before he is L'Ouverture's ago."

"Ha! he ought to know what disloyal little hearts there are beating
against him in this Saint Domingo that he thinks all his own."

"Perhaps," observed the abbess, "he used these words when he was not
speaking of slavery; but rather from being aware of the loyalty of the
Ouverture family; which is, I believe, exemplary."

"It is," declared Euphrosyne, looking up with glowing eyes.  "He has not
only served, but worshipped Bonaparte, all the years that they have both
ruled.  In his own family, Monsieur Pascal says--"

"What is Monsieur Pascal to do under the changes that are coming?"
interrupted Madame Oge.  "He has placed himself in a difficulty, it
seems to me.  Will he go under the yoke with his father-in-law?  (for I
suppose, in his devotion, he will be marrying one of Toussaint's
daughters).  Will he take the hoe, and go into the field--?  You are
smiling, my dear young lady."

Euphrosyne was indeed smiling.  She could not but hope that, as Madame
Oge was so ill-informed about the affairs of Monsieur Pascal, and of the
Raymonds, who were of her own colour, she might be mistaken about the
whole of her news.

"You are smiling," repeated Madame Oge.  "Though you stoop your head
over your work, I see that you have some droll thought."

"It would be strange, certainly," replied Euphrosyne, "to see the
philosophical Monsieur Pascal hoeing canes, or working at the mill.  Yet
I believe we may be certain that he will be a slave as soon as
Toussaint, or any negro in Saint Domingo."

"Young people like to be positive," said Madame Oge to the abbess.  "But
it does not much matter, as they have life before them; time enough to
see what is true, and what is not.  Is it your doctrine, my dear young
lady, that God has given over His wrath towards this island; and that it
is to be happy henceforth, with the negroes for masters?"

"With the negroes for equals, I think it may be happy.  But I never
thought of God being wrathful towards us.  I thought our miseries had
arisen out of men's wrath with each other."

"If ever," said Madame Oge, in a low tone, but yet so that every word
was heard--"if ever there was a place set apart by cursing--if ever
there was a hell upon this earth, it is this island.  Men can tell us
where paradise was--it was not here, whatever Columbus might say.  The
real paradise where the angels of God kept watch, and let no evil thing
enter, was on the other side of the globe: and I say that this place was
meant for a hell, as that was for a heaven, upon earth.  It looked like
heaven to those who first came: but that was the devil's snare.  It was
to make lust sweeter, and cruelty safer, that he adorned the place as he
did.  In a little while, it appeared like what it was.  The innocent
natives were corrupted; the defenceless were killed; the strong were
made slaves.  The plains were laid waste, and the valleys and woods were
rifled.  The very bees ceased to store their honey: and among the wild
game there was found no young.  Then came the sea-robbers, and haunted
the shores: and many a dying wretch screamed at night among the
caverns--many a murdered corpse lies buried in our sands.  Then the
negroes were brought in from over the sea; and from among their chains,
from under the lash, grew up the hatred of races.  The whites hated the
mulattoes, and despised the blacks.  The mulattoes hated both the whites
and the blacks; and--"

"And," interposed Euphrosyne, courageously, "the blacks hated neither.
They loved where they could; and where they could not love, they
forgave; and there lies the proof that this island is not hell."

"You have proved nothing, my dear, but that you do not know what has
happened, even since you were born.  Any white will tell you what the
negroes did, so late as the year ninety-one--how they killed their
masters by inches--how they murdered infants--how they carried off
ladies into the woods--"

A sign from the abbess availed to stop Madame Oge, even in the midst of
a subject on which none usually dared to interrupt her.  Euphrosyne, in
some agitation, replied, "I am aware of all that you say: but every one
allows that the most ignorant and cruel of the negroes did over again
exactly what they had seen the whites do to their race.  But these
revengeful blacks were few, very few, in comparison with the numbers who
spared their masters, helped and comforted them, and are now working on
their estates--friends with all who will be friends with them.  The
place is not hell where thousands of men forgot the insults of a
lifetime, and bind up the wounds of their oppressors."

"I cannot doubt," said the abbess, "that ever since there was a
Christian in the island, there have been angels of God at hand, to
sanctify the evil which they were not commissioned to prevent.  Violence
is open to the day.  Patience is hidden in the heart.  Revenge has
shouted his battle-cry at noon, while Forgiveness breathes her lowly
prayer at midnight.  Spirits from hell may have raged along our high
roads; but I trust that in the fiercest times, the very temper of Christ
may have dwelt in a thousand homes, in a thousand nooks of our valleys
and our woods."

"Besides," sister Benoite ventured to say, "our worst troubles were so
long ago!  For ten years now we have been under the holy rule of a
devout man; and, for the most part, at peace."

"Peace!" exclaimed Madame Oge, contemptuously.

"There have been disputes among the rulers, as Father Gabriel says there
are among all the rulers in the world; but he says (and no one knows
better than Father Gabriel) that the body of the people have not been
troubled by these disputes, and are not even aware of them."

"Does not Father Gabriel tell you that ten years are but a day in heaven
and hell?  Yes, in hell--they may be long for suffering; but they are
short for revenge.  The cruel master, who saw one slave faint under the
lash, and let another die in the stocks, and tore the husband from the
wife, and the child from the mother, might escape for the time with the
destruction of his family, punished for his sake:--he might live safely
in the midst of the city, for the ten years you speak of; but, let him
venture out for a single day--let him but drive to his own estate and
back again, and grey as his head is, he is shot in his own carriage, as
soon as it is dark."

Before the abbess could anticipate what was coming, the words were out.
Before she could make a sign, Euphrosyne had rushed from the room.

It was not long before the abbess entered the chamber of her charge.
She found her stretched on the bed, not weeping, but shuddering with
horror.

"My daughter," said she, "I grieve that this trial should have come upon
you already.  If one could have foreseen--"

"But, madam, is it true?  She meant _him_, I know.  Tell me faithfully,
is it true?"

"It is, my daughter."

"What, all?  Every one of those things?"

"All true.  Perhaps it is well that you should know it, that the
departed may have the benefit of your prayers.  But how differently
would I have had you told!"

"Never mind that!  Whatever is true, I can and will bear.  I will pray
for him, madam, day and night--as long as I live will I pray for him:
for he was to me--Oh, madam, how he loved me!  I will make reparation
for him; the reparation that he would make if he could.  I will find out
who were the poor creatures--I will make them happy for as long as they
live, for his sake.  You will help me, madam?"

"I will.  It is a pious intention."

"I owe him all that I can do.  I ask one favour of you, madam.  Let no
one speak to me about him--never again.  No one can understand what he
was to me--what care he took of me--how he used to love me.  Oh, madam,
is it quite certain--are you quite sure that those things are true?"

"My child, do not give me the pain of explaining more.  As you say, let
this never again be spoken of.--I propose to you, Euphrosyne, to make a
virtuous effort."

"Not to come down this evening, madam?"

"Yes, my child, to come down this evening.  I think it of importance
that Madame Oge should not discover how she has wounded you, and that
nothing should occur to fix her attention on the descendant of one who
was active in procuring the death of her sons.  Trust me, my dear, it is
worth an effort to prevent Madame Oge leaving this house your enemy."

"I do not care for it, madam.  Let her hate me.  She is quite welcome."

"You are thinking only of yourself, Euphrosyne.  I am thinking also of
her.  Consider how sore a heart she carries within her.  Consider how
wretched her life has been made by the enmities in which she has lived.
Will you not save her one more?  You have professed to pity her.  Now
you can show if your pity is real, by saving her from a new enmity."

"I am willing to do that: but how can I speak to her?  How can we know
what things she may say?"

"You shall not converse with her again.  The table is spread.  Go down
now, and take your place at the foot, beside sister Claire.  When we
rise from table, I will dismiss you to your room as in course."

"I wish that time was come," sighed Euphrosyne, as she languidly
arranged her hair.

The abbess stroked her pale cheek, as she said that in an hour she would
be glad the effort was made.

"You can spend the evening in writing to your friend," said she; "and if
you think proper to tell her that I know her secret, you may assure her
of my blessing and my prayers.  They are due to one who loves my dear
charge as she does."

Euphrosyne's cheeks were now no longer pale.

"And may I tell her, madam, what Madame Oge has been declaring about
Bonaparte and his threats?"

"It will be needless, my dear.  If there be any truth in the matter,
Monsieur Pascal, doubtless, knows more than Madame Oge."

"In that case there can be no harm in mentioning it."

Still the abbess thought it would be safer to say nothing about it; and
Euphrosyne gave up the point for to-night, remembering that she could
perhaps send a private despatch afterwards by the hands of Pierre.

During the meal, while the length of the table was between them,
Euphrosyne nearly escaped the notice of Madame Oge.  When it was over,
and the sisters rose, while the guest and the abbess passed out to the
parlour, the abbess stopped at Euphrosyne, kissed her forehead, and
commended her to her studies.  Madame Oge stopped too, and put in an
intercession that the young lady might be excused studying this evening,
and permitted to return to her pretty fancy-work in the parlour.  The
colour rushed to Euphrosyne's temples--a sign of ardent hope of a
holiday in Madame Oge's eyes.  She therefore thought the abbess
grievously strict when she replied that her charge would prefer spending
the evening in her own chamber.

"As you please," said Madame Oge.  "It was my wish to do the child a
kindness; and perhaps to have the pleasure myself of seeing a young face
for an hour or two--the rarest of all sights to me.  I seldom go out;
and when I do, all the young and cheerful faces seem to have hidden
themselves."

The abbess regulated her invitations for the evening by this speech.
Sisters Debora and Marie, one the youngest, and the other the merriest
of the family, were requested to bring their work-bags, and join the
party in the parlour.

"Good evening, young lady," said Madame Oge to Euphrosyne, holding out
her hand.  "I hoped to have procured you a little freedom, and to have
had _more_ conversation about your hero; but--"

"If there are to be great changes in the colony," observed the
abbess--"it may yet be in your power, madam, to show kindness to my
charge."

"If so, command me, my dear.  But it is more likely that the changes to
come will have the opposite effect.  Then pretty young white ladies may
have all their own way; while the storm will burst again on the heads of
the dark people."

"If so, command me, madam," Euphrosyne exerted herself to say.  The
abbess's smile made her eyes fill with tears, almost before she had
spoken.

"Are your eyes wet for me, my dear?" said Madame Oge, with surprise.
"Let the storm burst upon me; for I am shattered and stricken already,
and nothing can hurt me.  But I shall remember your offer.  Meantime,
you may depend upon it, the news I told you is true--the times I warned
you of are coming."

"What news? what warning?" eagerly asked the sisters of Euphrosyne, as
soon as the guest was out of hearing.

"That there were hurricanes last November, and there will be more the
next," replied she, escaping to her chamber.  Before she slept, she had
written all her news and all her thoughts to Afra, leaving it for
decision in the morning, whether she should send entire what she had
written.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

THE HERALD ABROAD.

Madame Oge's news was too true.  Monsieur Pascal had held many an
anxious conversation with L'Ouverture on the subject, before Afra showed
him her little friend's letter.  In a short time an additional fact
became known--that Bonaparte had re-established the slave-trade.  His
enmity to the race of blacks was now open and declared.

The first intimation which the colony at large had of what had happened,
was through the altered demeanour of their chief.  From the first bright
day of the prolific, gorgeous summer, to that in which the season merged
in a fierce autumnal storm, L'Ouverture had been seen to be not less
calm and quiet than usual, but depressed and sad.  Some ascribed his
gloom to the transaction at Cap, and the misery it must needs have
introduced into his home.  Others, who saw how much the colony had
gained in confidence, and Toussaint's government in strength by that
act, looked for a different cause.  Some reminded each other that, while
no man was more energetic in the hour of proof than their chief, his
spirits were wont to droop when others were elated.  It seemed as if
some boding ghost whispered evil to him most peremptorily when the
harvests were ripest before his eyes, when the laugh and the song were
loudest in his ear, and when no one dreamed that the bright days of the
colony would ever more be overclouded.

It was even so.  When Toussaint saw that his race was in peace, it
filled him with grief that this peace was not likely to last.  When he
saw what the true African soul was, when cleansed from blood and anger,
and permitted to grow in freedom and in harmony, it was torture to know
(as he did too well) that new injuries were preparing for it--that it
was certain to be again steeped in passion and slaughter, and all that
was savage in it excited afresh.  This, even more than the death of
Moyse, cast gloom round his soul, during the last of the series of
bright and prosperous summers that were to pass under his eye.  When
autumn came, it might have made him wonder, if he had had leisure to
consider himself, to find how his spirits rose, and his heart grew
light, exactly when dismay and dread began to overcloud every face about
him, but when he saw that suspense and struggle were coming to an end.
He perceived perplexity in the countenance of his friend Pascal, even in
the presence of his bride.  He met sorrow in the mild eyes of Henri; he
heard that exultation in the voice of Jacques which always struck like
discord upon his ear.  He observed that in the bearing of Madame
Dessalines which carried back his memory ten years into her past
history.  He saw Aimee tremble at the approach of any one who might
bring news from France; and he heard Margot weeping at her prayers, as
she implored of Heaven the safe return of her sons.  Yet all this caused
to his sympathising heart scarcely a pang; so clear was his path now, so
distinct was the issue to which his duty, and the fate of his race was
brought.

"Here it ends then," said he, one day at the council-table, rising as
bespoke.  "Here ends all possibility of compromise.  For the blacks, it
is slavery or self-defence.  It is so, Monsieur Pascal."

"It is.  The terms of the new peace are proclaimed."

"And the fact substantiated that Bonaparte has declared that he will do
what he pleases with Saint Domingo."

"Such were certainly his words."

"Who is surprised?" inquired Dessalines.  "I forewarned you of this,
long ago: and I said, at the same time, that, if we waited for
aggression, we might find it too late for defence."

"Not a word of fear, Jacques.  Our victory is as sure as the justice of
Heaven."

"Perhaps so; but it would have been easier if you had not been training
your people, all these years, to love and cherish those whom they are
now going to resist."

"I see and admit our difficulty, Jacques.  But if I had governed as you
would have had me, we should have been in a worse.  I should then have
been the chief of a race of savages, instead of soldiers and citizens.
If we had been extirpating the whites all this time, we should now have
been destroying each other, instead of preparing to go forth to a
righteous war."

"True.  Most true," declared Henri.  "We may suffer for a time, and
fight with the more difficulty, from our habits of observance towards
those whom we must now oppose; but God will not allow the spirit of
forgiveness and love to be finally a snare."

"Never," said Toussaint.  "He has appointed fierce passions for a yoke,
and mild affections for freedom.  Though Bonaparte betrays and
oppresses, the Gospel stands.--It is now time for proclaiming the war
throughout the colony."

"I will prepare the proclamation this night," said Monsieur Pascal.

"If you will, my friend," said Toussaint.  "But I intend to be my own
proclamation.  To-morrow morning I set forth for Saint Domingo, to visit
my brother in his city.  I shall examine every fort, and call together
the militia, as I go.  The trip would be more effective if I could have
my council about me."

"I will go with you," said Henri.

"And I," exclaimed Jacques.

"And I?" said Raymond, inquiringly.

"No, Raymond; stay at Port-au-Prince, to report my proceedings to the
legislature.  And you, Monsieur Pascal, remain here to receive the
despatches which may arrive from France.  My brethren-in-arms of the
council will be with me.  When we have satisfied ourselves, we will let
you know whether or not those who would have loved and served France for
ever as a guardian angel, can cast her off when she becomes an incubus."

It was a time of high excitement--that in which L'Ouverture, attended by
four of his generals, and a train of inferior officers, traversed the
island, to communicate or confirm the intelligence that an expedition
was believed to be setting sail from France, for the purpose of wresting
from the blacks the freedom which was theirs by the law of the land.
Toussaint found, not only that all hearts were ready for the assertion
of freedom, but that all eyes were so fixed upon him, all ears so open
to his lightest word, that there was every probability of his purposes
being fully understood and completely executed.  At a word from him, the
inhabitants of Cap Francais and Port-au-Prince began to remove their
property into the fastnesses of the interior, and to prepare to burn
those towns at the moment of the French attempting to land.  It was
useless to think of preventing a landing, so exposed was the greater
part of the coast.  The more rational hope was so to distress the foe on
shore as to make them glad to go on board their ships again.  Equally
satisfactory was the disposition of the interior.  The municipal bodies
throughout the colony, previously brought under one system, now acted in
concert.  Their means of communication had been improved, so that each
settlement was no longer like an encampment in the wilderness: on the
contrary, every order given by L'Ouverture seemed to have been echoed by
the mountain-tops around, so promptly was it transmitted, and so
continually did he find his commands anticipated.  As he went, his four
generals parted off, to examine the forts on either hand, and to inspect
and animate the militia.  Everywhere the same story was told, and
everywhere was it received with the same eagerness and docility.  "The
French are coming to make slaves of us again; but there shall never more
be a slave in Saint Domingo.  They are coming; but they are our
countrymen till they have struck the first blow.  We will demand of them
an account of our brethren in Cayenne, in Guadaloupe, and in Martinique.
We will ask of them concerning our brethren on the coasts of Africa.
If, in return, they throw us chains and the whip, we shall know how to
answer.  But not a blow must be struck till they have shown whether they
are brethren or foes.  Our dark skin is no disgrace; but the first drop
of a brother's blood dyes us all in infamy.  Let the infamy be theirs
who assault us.  At this moment our first duty is to our white brethren
of this island; in this time of our high excitement, they are full of
grief; they are guiltless of this attack upon our liberty; they are as
willing as we to live and die under the rule of L'Ouverture: and under
the special protection of L'Ouverture, they shall, if they please, live
and die.  Beware of imputing to them the sins of their colour; protect
them from your hearts--defend them with your lives.  In the hour of
danger, as you invoke the blessing of Heaven, save first the Creole
whites, and next your wives and your children."

Such were the exhortations spoken everywhere by Christophe, La Plume,
and Clerveaux.  It could not be expected of Dessalines that he should
deliver the last clauses with perfect fidelity.  The solemnity of the
hour had, however its tranquillising effect, even upon his ruling
passion.  Even his heart, which usually turned to stone at the sight of
a white, was moved by the visible distress of the proprietors of that
race, who were, with scarcely an exception, in despair.  In private,
they execrated the spirit and conduct of their former neighbours, now in
Paris, whose representations were the chief cause of the expedition now
projected.  Instead of remaining or returning, to ascertain the real
state of things in Saint Domingo--instead of respecting the interests
and wishes of those who were entirely satisfied under the government of
L'Ouverture, they had prejudiced the mind of the First Consul, and
induced him to bring back the ruin and woe which had passed away.  The
ladies wept and trembled within their houses; their fathers, husbands,
and brothers flocked to every point where L'Ouverture halted, to assure
him of their good-will to his government, and to remind him of the
difficulty and danger of the position in which they were placed.  These
last carried some comfort home with them.  All who had seen Toussaint's
face had met there the gaze of a brother.  If there were two or three
who went with doubtful minds, prepared to exult at the depression of the
blacks, but thinking it well to bespeak protection, in case of the
struggle ending the wrong way--if there was a sprinkling of such among
the throng of whites who joined the cavalcade from the cross-roads, they
shrunk away abashed before the open countenance of the Deliverer, and
stole homewards to wait the guidance of events.

If it had not been that the city of Saint Domingo was at the end of this
march, Toussaint would have traversed the colony with a higher spirit
and a lighter heart than during any of his serener days of power; but
the city of his brother's government was before him, and, at its gate,
Paul, whom he had not met since the death of Moyse.  He had not been
forgetful of his sorrowing brother; he had immediately sent to him
Father Laxabon--the best consoler, as the last confidant of the
departed.  Letter upon letter had Toussaint sent--deed upon deed of
kindness had he attempted towards his brother; but still Father Laxabon
had written, "Come not yet;" "He must have time;" "Give him time if
there is to be peace between you."  Now it had become necessary that
they should meet; and far readier was Toussaint to encounter the armies
of France than the countenance of his brother.  For ever, in the midst
of the excitements of the journey, he found himself asking in his own
mind where and how Paul would meet him; and whether he had cut off from
himself his brother, as well as his brother's son.

Meantime, the party rode proudly on, through the interior of the island,
signs of welcome spreading around them at every step.  From the
grass-farms, in the wide savannahs, the herdsmen hastened, with promises
to drive their flocks up into the mornes, where no enemy should
penetrate while a man remained to guard the passes.  At each salute from
the forts that rose at intervals along the way, the wild cattle rushed
towards the steeps; while the parties of hunters turned back from their
sports, to offer themselves as scouts and messengers on behalf of the
colony.  From some glade of the woods appeared the monk, charged with
the blessing of his convent; or the grazier, with a string of horses--
his gift, for the service of the army.  Around the crosses which, half
concealed by the long grass of the plains, yet served to mark the road,
were gathered groups of women, bearing bags of money, or ornaments of
gold and silver, which they would have thrust upon him, to whom they
declared that they owed their all; while every settlement displayed its
company of armed men, standing in military order, and rending the air
with shouts, on the approach of their chief.  La Plume and Clerveaux, to
whom such demonstrations were less familiar than to the other generals,
no longer doubted that all would be well.  They pronounced that the
colony already showed itself invincible.  Toussaint thought that he
might have been of the same opinion, if the expected foe had been any
other than French.  The event must show whether the pains he had taken
to unite his race with their fellow-citizens as brethren would now
weaken or strengthen his cause--whether it would enhance or mitigate the
bitterness of the impending quarrel.

On the morning of the last day of their survey of the interior, the
party emerged from the shade of the woods, and, crossing the grassy
levels of the Llanos, reached the ferry by which the Ozama was to be
crossed near its mouth.  On the opposite bank were horsemen, who, on
observing the party approaching the ferry, put spurs to their horses,
and galloped southwards, in the direction of the city.  They need not so
have hastened; for the Deliverer was stopped at every fishing hamlet--
almost at every hut along the shores of the bay, to receive the loyal
homage of the inhabitants--Spanish as well as French.  In the midst of
these greetings the eye and the soul of the chief were absent--looking
to what lay before him.  There, at some distance, springing from the
level of the plain, rose the cathedral of Saint Domingo, and other lofty
buildings, whose outline was distinctly marked against the glittering
sea which spread immediately behind.  An ungovernable impatience seized
him at length, and he broke away, bursting through the throngs upon the
road, and resolving not to stop till he should have seen his fate, as a
brother, in his brother's eyes.

A procession of priests was issuing from the city gates as he
approached.  They were robed, and they bore the Host under a canopy.  At
the first sound of their chant, the generals and their suite threw
themselves from their horses, and prostrated themselves upon the grass.
On rising, they perceived that the whole city had come out to meet them.
"The whole city," Toussaint heard his companions say: and his heart
throbbed when he strained his sight to see if the Governor of the city
was the only one left at home.  The procession of priests had now
turned, and was preceding him--slowly--so slowly, that he would fain
have dispensed with the solemnity.  The people crowded round his horse
and impeded his way.  He strove to be present to the occasion; but all
was like a troubled dream--the chanting, the acclamation, the bursts of
military music from a distance--all that at other times had fired his
soul was now disturbance and perplexity.  A few faithless persons in the
crowd, on the watch for information with which they might make interest
with the French on their arrival, noted the wandering of the eye and the
knitting of the brow, and drew thence a portent of the fall of the
Deliverer.

At length the gate was reached; and there, in the shadow of the portal,
surrounded by his attendants, stood Paul.  On the arrival of his brother
at the threshold, he took from an officer the velvet cushion on which
the keys of the city were deposited, and advancing to the stirrup of the
Commander-in-chief, offered them, according to custom.  For an instant,
Toussaint gazed on the aged, worn, melancholy countenance beside him,
and then stooped from his horse, to fling his arms round the neck of his
brother, breathing into his ear, "If _you_ are in your duty at such a
time as this, who else dare fail me?  I thank God!  I thank God!  We
cannot fail."

Paul withdrew himself, without speaking.  His action was sullen.  He led
the way, however, towards the Governor's house, evidently expecting to
be followed.  Not another word passed between them on the way.  Through
one wide street after another L'Ouverture was led; and from the
balconies of whole ranges of fine houses, from the roof of many a
church, and the porch of many a convent, was he hailed, before he could
catch another glimpse of the countenance of the brother who preceded
him.  At the gate of the Governor's house there was a pause; and way was
made for the chief to pass in first.  He did so; and the next moment
turned round in the vestibule, to speak to Paul; but Paul had
disappeared.  Glancing round, Toussaint saw Father Laxabon awaiting him
at the foot of the staircase.  Each advanced to the other.

"Father, he is wretched," whispered Toussaint.  "Bring me to him."

"Follow me," said the priest; and, instead of mounting the marble
staircase, L'Ouverture and the father were seen to enter a passage, into
which every one else was forbidden to follow.  Father Laxabon tapped
softly at a door, and was desired to enter.  He opened it, and closed it
behind Toussaint, keeping watch outside, that the brothers might not be
disturbed.

Paul started to his feet from the conch on which he had thrown himself.
He stood waiting.  Now was the decisive moment; and Toussaint knew it
was.  Yet he stood speechless.

"I left my son in your charge," said Paul, at length.

"You did: and I--"

"And you murdered him."

"No, Paul!  I executed justice upon him.  Hear me, brother, once for
all.  I am heart-broken for you as a brother: but as a magistrate, I
will admit no censure.  As his father in your stead, I was, as the event
has proved, too ambitious for him: but, as a ruler, I did but my duty."

"Yes!  You have been ambitious!  You have chosen your duty!"

"My ambition was for him, Paul.  As for my duty--remember that I have
too a child whom, by that act, I doomed to worse than death."

"You see what liberty has brought to us.  Look at the family of
Ouverture--consider what has befallen since your struggle for liberty
began; and then, perhaps, you will give over struggling.  Welcome the
French--go back to Breda--send me home to my hut on the shore, that I
may die in such peace as is left to a childless man.  Why do you not
answer me, Toussaint?  Why will you not give us a last chance of peace?
I must obey you at the city gate; but I will importune you here.  Why
will you not do as I say?"

"Because I know that some--and the Ouvertures among them--were not born
to live at ease--to pass their days in peace.  I feel that some--and the
Ouvertures among them--are born to suffer--to struggle and to die for
their race.  If you would know why, ask their Creator.  I myself would
fain know why.  Meantime, the will of God is so clear, that I have
devoted, not myself only, but my children.  My sons, you know--"

"And not your children only, but your brother and his child."

"No.  Moyse cast himself away.  And, as for you, your hut still stands,
as you say.  Go to it, if you will; or make friends with the French, if
you desire to be a slave again.  You have suffered too much by me for me
to ask you ever to serve me more.  I shall never desire you to dedicate
yourself anew to pain, in this crisis.  Go and seek for ease.  I shall
incessantly pray that you may find it."

"I shall not seek what is not to be found, Toussaint.  I have never
dared wretchedness as you have: but since I am and must be wretched, I
will be an Ouverture.  Your eye and your voice make me an Ouverture
again, even yet.  Give me your commands."

"Read this proclamation, with the eye of an Ouverture.  Well!  Do you
like it?  How do you understand it?"

"You declare your allegiance to France, declaring, at the same time, its
limits, and appealing to your soldiers, in the event of aggression.  It
is plain from this that you mean to defend yourself, and anticipate
war."

"It is well.  That is what I intend to convey.  You will publish this
proclamation, in your city and district, under the date of this 18th of
December, 1801.  You will then concert with General Clerveaux the
measures for the defence of this city, and report your decisions to me,
on my return from Cap Samana.  Shall it be so, brother?"

"Be it so."

"And we are friends?"

"We are fellow-citizens--we are Ouvertures--and therefore faithful.  I
shall not betray you."

"That is all I can ask, I know.  We are old men, Paul.  Fidelity for a
while!  Beyond the grave, perhaps more."

"You are going already?"

"To Cap Samana; and alone.  Farewell!"



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

ALL EYE.

Day by day, in the internals of his occupation about the defence of the
colony, did Toussaint repair to Cap Samana, to look eastwards over the
sea.  Day by day was he more sure, from the information that reached
him, that the French could not be far-off.  At length, he desired that
his generals should be within call from Cotuy, a small town which stood
on the banks of the Cotuy, near the western base of the mountainous
promontory of Samana--promontory at low water, island at high tide.

All was yet dark on the eastern point of this mountain, on the morning
of the 28th of December, when two watchmen, who had passed the night
under the ferns in a cleft of the steep, came out to look abroad.  On
their mountain all was yet dark, for the stars overhead, though still
rolling clear and golden--visible orbs in the empty depths of the sky--
were so far dimmed by the dawn in the east as no longer to send down
their shafts of light upon the earth.  The point on which these watchmen
stood was so high, that between them and the horizon the sea lay like
half a world--an immeasurable expanse, spreading as if from a vast depth
below up into the very sky.  Dim and soundless lay the mass of waters--
breaking, no doubt, as for ages past, against the rocky precipice below;
but not so as to be heard upon the steep.  If might have appeared dead,
but that a ray from some quarter of the heaven, capriciously touching
its surface, showed that it was heaving as was its wont.  Eastwards, at
the point of junction of sea and sky, a dusky yellow light shone through
the haze of morning, as behind a curtain, and told that the sun was on
his way.  As their eyes became accustomed to the dim light (which was
darkness compared to that which had visited their dreams among the
ferns), the watchmen alternately swept the expanse with their glass, and
pronounced that there was not a sail in sight.

"I believe, however, that this will be our day; the wind is fair for the
fleet," said Toussaint to Henri.  "Go and bathe while I watch."

"We have said for a week past that each would be the day," replied
Henri.  "If it be to-day, however, they can hardly have a fairer for the
first sight of the paradise which poets and ladies praise at the French
court.  It promises to be the loveliest day of the year.  I shall be
here again before the sun has risen."

And Christophe retired to bathe in the waterfall which made itself heard
from behind the ferns, and was hidden by them; springing, as they did,
to a height of twenty feet and upwards.  To the murmur and gush of this
waterfall the friends had slept.  An inhabitant of the tropics is so
accustomed to sound, that he cannot sleep in the midst of silence: and
on these heights there would have been everlasting silence but for the
voice of waters, and the thunders and their echoes in the season of
storms.

When both had refreshed themselves, they took their seat on some broken
ground on the verge of the precipice, sometimes indulging their full
minds with silence, but continually looking abroad over the now
brightening sea.  It was becoming of a deeper blue as the sky grew
lighter, except at that point of the east where earth and heaven seemed
to be kindling with a mighty fire.  There the haze was glowing with
purple and crimson; and there was Henri intently watching for the first
golden spark of the sun, when Toussaint touched his shoulder, and
pointed to the northwards.  Shading his eyes with his hand, Christophe
strove to penetrate the grey mists which had gathered there.

"What is it?" said he--"a sail?  Yes: there is one--three--four!"

"There are seven," said Toussaint.

Long did he gaze through the glass at these seven sail; and then he
reported an eighth.  At this moment his arm was grasped.

"See! see!" cried Christophe, who was looking southwards.

From behind the distant south-eastern promontory Del Euganno, now
appeared, sail after sail, to the number of twenty.

"All French," observed Christophe.  "Lend me the glass."

"All French," replied his friend.  "They are, no doubt, coming to
rendezvous at this point."

While Henri explored those which were nearest, Toussaint leaned on his
folded arms against the bank of broken ground before him, straining his
eyes over the now-peopled sea.

"More!  More!" he exclaimed, as the sun appeared, and the new gush of
light showed sail upon sail, as small specks upon the horizon line.  He
snatched the glass; and neither he nor Henri spoke for long.

The east wind served the purposes of the vast fleet, whose three
detachments, once within each other's view, rapidly converged, showing
that it was indeed their object to rendezvous at Cap Samana.  Silent,
swift, and most fair (as is the wont of evil) was this form of
destruction in its approach.

Not a word was spoken as the great ships-of-the-line bore majestically
up towards their point, while the lighter vessels skimmed the sea, as in
sport, and made haste in, as if racing with one another, or anxious to
be in waiting, to welcome their superiors.  Nearer and nearer they
closed in, till the waters seemed to be covered with the foe.  When
Toussaint was assured that he had seen them all--when he had again and
again silently counted over the fifty-four ships-of-war--he turned to
his friend with a countenance of anguish, such as even that friend of
many years had never seen.

"Henri," said he, "we must all perish.  All France has come to Saint
Domingo!"

"Then we will perish," replied Henri.

"Undoubtedly: it is not much to perish, if that were all.  But the world
will be the worse for ever.  Trance is deceived.  She comes, in an
error, to avenge herself, and to enslave the blacks.  Trance has been
deceived."

"If we were but all together," said Henri, "so that there were no
moments of weakness to fear.--If your sons were but with us--"

"Fear no moments of weakness from me," said Toussaint, its wonted fire
now glowing in his eye.  "My colour imposes on me duties above nature;
and while my boys are hostages, they shall be to me as if they no longer
existed."

"They may possibly be on board the fleet," said Christophe.  "If by
caution we could obtain possession of them--"

"Speak no more of them now," said Toussaint.--Presently, as if thinking
aloud, and with his eyes still bent on the moving ships, he went on:

"No, those on board those ships are not boys, with life before them, and
eager alike for arts and arms.  I see who they are that are there.
There are the troops of the Rhine--troops that have conquered a fairer
river than our Artibonite, storming the castles on her steeps, and
crowning themselves from her vineyards.  There are the troops of the
Alps--troops that have soared above the eagle, and stormed the clouds,
and plucked the ice-king by the beard upon his throne.  There are the
troops of Italy--troops that have trodden the old Roman ways, and fought
over again the old Roman wars--that have drunk of the Tiber, and once
more conquered the armies of the Danube.  There are the troops of
Egypt--troops that have heard the war-cry of the desert tribes, and
encamped in the shadow of the pyramids."

"Yet he is not afraid," said Henri to himself, as he watched the
countenance of his friend.

"All these," continued Toussaint, "all these are brought hither against
a poor, depressed, insulted, ignorant race--brought as conquerors, eager
for the spoil before a blow is struck.  They come to disembarrass our
paradise of us, as they would clear a fragrant and fruitful wood of apes
and reptiles.  And if they find that it takes longer than they suppose
to crush and disperse us, France has more thousands ready to come and
help.  The labourer will leave his plough at a word, and the
vine-dresser his harvest, and the artisan his shop--France will pour out
the youth of all her villages, to seize upon the delights of the
tropics, and the wealth of the savages, as they are represented by the
emigrants who will not take me for a friend, but eat their own hearts
far away, with hatred and jealousy.  All France is coming to Saint
Domingo!"

"But--" interposed Christophe.

"But, Henri," interrupted his friend, laying his hand on his shoulder,
"not all France, with her troops of the Rhine, of the Alps, of the Nile,
nor with all Europe to help her, can extinguish the soul of Africa.
That soul, when once the soul of a man, and no longer that of a slave,
can overthrow the pyramids and the Alps themselves, sooner than be again
crushed down into slavery."

"With God's help," said Christophe, crossing himself.

"With God's help," repeated Toussaint.  "See here," he continued, taking
up a handful of earth from the broken ground on which they stood, "see
here what God has done!  See, here are shells from the depth of yonder
ocean, lying on the mountain-top.  Cannot He who thus uprears the dust
of His ocean floor, and lifts it above the clouds, create the societies
of men anew, and set their lowest order but a little below the stars?"

"He can," said Christophe, again crossing himself.

"Then let all France come to Saint Domingo!  She may yet be undeceived--
What now?" he resumed, after a pause of observation.  "What manoeuvre is
this?"

The ships, almost before they had drawn together, parted off again;
nearly two-thirds retiring to the north, and the rest southwards.

"They are doing as we supposed they would," said Christophe; "preparing
to attack Cap Francais and our southern or western towns at once;
perhaps both Saint Domingo and Port-au-Prince."

"Be it so; we are ready for them," replied Toussaint.  "But now there is
no time to lose.  To Cotuy, to give our orders, and then all to our
posts!"

Once more he took a survey of the vast fleet, in its two divisions, and
then spread his arms in the direction of his chief cities, promising the
foe to be ready to meet them there.  In another moment he was striding
down the mountain.

His generals were awaiting him at Cotuy, and the horses of the whole
party were saddled.

"The French are come?" they asked.

"The French are come in great force.  Fifty-four ships-of-war, carrying
probably ten or twelve thousand men."

"We have twenty thousand regular troops," cried Dessalines.  "The day of
the proud French has arrived!"

L'Ouverture's calm eye checked his exultation.

"Ten or twelve thousand of the elite of the armies of France," said
Toussaint, "are sailing along our shores; and large reinforcements may
be following.  Our twenty thousand troops are untried in the field
against a European foe; but our cause is good.  Let us be bold, my
friends; but the leaders of armies must not be presumptuous."

All uncovered their heads, and waited only his dismissal.

"General Christophe, Cap Francais and its district are waiting for you.
Let the flames of the city give us notice when the French land."

Christophe embraced his friend, and was gone.

"General Dessalines, to your command in the west!  Preserve your line of
messengers from Leogane to my gate at Pongaudin, and let me not want for
tidings."

The tramp of Dessalines' horse next died away.

"General La Plume, it is probable that your eye will have to be busier
than your hands.  You will be ever ready for battle, of course; but
remember that I rely on you for every point of the south-west coast
being watched, from Leogane round to Aux Cayes.  Send your
communications through Dessalines' line of scouts."

La Plume withdrew, and Toussaint gazed after him in reverie, till he was
out of sight.

"And I?" said Clerveaux, the only general officer now left in
attendance.

"Your pardon, General Clerveaux.  This your department in the east is
likely at present to remain tranquil, as I forewarned you.  I now
forewarn you that it may hereafter become the seat of war, when you will
have your day.  Meantime, I may at any time call upon your reserve; and
you will take care that the enemy shall find no solace in your
department, if they should visit it.  Let it be bare as the desert
before them.  Farewell; I leave you in command of the east."

Clerveaux made his obeisance with an alacrity which caused Toussaint to
say to himself, as he mounted--

"Is he glad that the hour is come, or that his post is in the rear of
the battle?"

Toussaint's own road lay homewards, where he had assembled the choicest
troops, to be ready for action on any point where they might first be
wanted, and where the great body of the cultivators, by whom his
personal influence was most needed, were collected under his eye.  As he
now sped like the lightning through the shortest tracks, his trompettes
proclaiming the invasion through all the valleys, and over all the
plains as they went, he felt strong and buoyant in heart, like the eagle
overhead, which was scared from its eyrie in Cibao by the proclamation
of war.  For ever, as he rode, the thought recurred to fire his soul,
"He is my rival now, and no longer my chief.  I am free.  It is his own
act, but Bonaparte has me for a rival now."



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

MANY GUESTS.

For some weeks after the appearance of the fleet upon the coast, nothing
took place which could be called war.  Toussaint was resolved not to be
the aggressor.  Prepared at all points, he waited till those whom he
still regarded as his fellow-citizens should strike the first blow.  He
was the more willing to leave an opening for peace till the last, that
he heard that ladies were on board--ladies from the court of France,
come to enjoy the delights of this tropical paradise.  The sister of
Bonaparte, Madame Leclerc, the wife of the commander of the expedition,
was there.  It seemed scarcely conceivable that she and her train of
ladies could have come with any expectation of witnessing such a warfare
as, ten years before, had shown how much more savage than the beasts of
the forest men may be.  It was as little conceivable that they could
expect the negroes to enter into slavery again at a word, after having
enjoyed freedom, and held rule for ten years.  There must still be hope
of peace; and Toussaint spared no effort to preserve it, till the
strangers should declare their intentions by some unequivocal act.

For this object, L'Ouverture appeared gifted with ubiquity.  No flying
Arab was ever in so many places so nearly at once.  Pongaudin, like
every other estate which was in friendly hands, was a sort of camp.
Here the Commander-in-chief and his officers had their head-quarters;
and here he was to be found, at intervals of a few hours.  During those
intervals, he was inspecting the fortifications of Saint Marc, one of
the strongest places of the island, and under the charge of Dessalines;
or he was overlooking the bight of Leogane, from behind Port-au-Prince;
or he was visiting L'Etoile, made a strong post, and held by Charles
Bellair and his wife (for Deesha would not leave her husband);--or he
was riding through the mornes to the north, re-animating, with the sight
of his beloved countenance, the companies there held in reserve.  He was
on the heights of the Gros Morne, an admiring spectator, on occasion of
that act of Christophe which was the real cause of the delay and
indecision of Leclerc and his troops.

The main body of the French army was preparing to land, immediately on
its arrival at Cap Francais, when Christophe sent his friend and brother
officer, Sangos, on board the fleet, to acquaint Leclerc with the
absence of the Commander-in-chief of the colony, without whose
permission the landing of troops could not be allowed.  If a landing by
force were attempted, the city would immediately be fired, and the
inhabitants withdrawn.  General Leclerc could not believe this to be
more than an empty threat; but thought it as well to avoid risk, by
landing in the night at points where he was not looked for.
Accordingly, he sent some of his force on shore at Fort Dauphin, to the
east; while he himself, with a body of troops, set foot on the fatal
coast which he was never to leave, at Le Limbe, on the western side of
the ridge which commanded the town, hoping to drop into the military
quarter from the heights, before he was looked for.  From these heights,
however, he beheld the town one mass of fire.  Christophe had withdrawn
the inhabitants, including two thousand whites, who were to be held as
hostages in the interior; and so orderly and well-planned had been his
proceedings, that not the slightest personal injury was sustained by any
individual.  Of this conflagration, Toussaint had been a witness from
the heights of Gros Morne.  The horror which it occasioned was for the
strangers alone.  All the movable property of the citizens was safe in
the interior: and they were all safe in person.  The dismay was for the
French, when they found only a burning soil, tumbling roofs, and
tottering walls, where they had expected repose and feasting after the
ennui of a voyage across the Atlantic.  For the court ladies, there
existed at present only the alternative of remaining on board the ships,
of which they were heartily weary, and establishing themselves on the
barren island of Tortuga, the home of the buccaneers of former days.
They shortly after took possession of Tortuga, which they found to be a
tropical region indeed, but no paradise.  It was not the best season for
turtle; and there was no other of the luxuries whose savour had reached
the nostrils of the court of France.

Among the two thousand whites removed from Cap were, of course, the
ladies of the convent.  They were safely established under shelter of
the fortifications of Saint Marc, with all their little comforts about
them, and their mocking-bird as tuneful as when hanging in its own
orange-tree.  Euphrosyne was not with them--nor yet with her guardian.
Monsieur Critois had enough to do to protect himself and his lady; and
he earnestly desired his ward to be thankful that she had friends among
the ruling powers.  Euphrosyne needed no commands on this head.  She
joined Madame Pascal, and was now with her and the secretary in the
half-camp, half-household of Pongaudin.

Besides the family and establishment of the Commander-in-chief, as many
of the white gentry of Cap were accommodated as the country palace of
Pongaudin would contain.  It seemed doubtful how long they would have to
find amusement for themselves there; for the invaders seemed to have
fallen asleep.  A month had passed since the burning of Cap, and not
another step had been taken.  Expectation had begun to be weary.  The
feverish watching for news had begun to relax; the ladies no longer
shuddered at the bare idea of walking in the shrubberies; and some of
the younger damsels had begun to heed warnings from L'Ouverture himself
not to go out of bounds--by no means to pass the line of sentinels in
any direction.  Instead of everything French being spoken of with a
faltering voice, any one was now welcome who might be able to tell, even
at second or third hand, that Madame Leclerc had been seen, and what she
wore, and how she looked, and what she had said, either about the colony
or anything else.  The officers, both civil and military, found
themselves able to devote their powers of entertainment more and move to
the ladies; and the liability to be called off in the midst of the game
of chess, the poem, the song, or the dance, seemed only to make their
attentions more precious, because more precarious, than those of the
guests who knew themselves to be hostages, and who had abundance of time
for gallantry, if only they had had spirits and inclination.  Most of
the party certainly found the present position of affairs very dull.
The exceptions were few.  They were poor Genifrede, whose mind was
wholly in the past, and before whose eyes the present went forward as a
dim dream; her mother and sister, whose faculties were continually on
the stretch to keep up, under such circumstances, the hospitalities for
which they were pledged to so large a household; the secretary and his
bride, who were engrossed at once with the crisis in public affairs and
in their own; and Euphrosyne, who could find nothing dull after the
convent, and who unconsciously wished that, if this were invasion and
war, they might last a good while yet.

One evening, the 8th of February, was somewhat remarkable for
L'Ouverture being not only at home, but at leisure.  He was playing
billiards with his officers and guests.  It followed of course that
General Vincent was also present.  It followed of course; for whether it
was that Toussaint felt the peculiar interest in him which report made
observers look for towards an intended son-in-law, or whether the chief
distrusted him on account of his fondness for Paris and the First
Consul, Vincent was for ever kept under the eye, and by the side of his
General.  Aimee was wont to sigh when she heard her father's horse
ordered; for she know that Vincent was going too; and she now rejoiced
to see her father at the billiard-table; for it told her that Vincent
was her own for the evening.

Vincent was not slow in putting in his claim.  At the first moment, when
they were unobserved, he drew her to the window, where the evening
breeze blew in, fragrant and cool; then into the piazza; then across the
lawn; then down to the gate which opened upon the beach.  He would have
gone further; but there Aimee stopped, reminding him of the general
order against breaking bounds.

"That is all very well for the whites; and for us, when the whites have
their eyes upon us," said Vincent.  "But we are not prisoners; and there
is not a prisoner abroad to-night.  Come--only as far as the mangroves!
We shall not be missed: and if we should be, we can be within the gate
in two minutes."

"I dare not," said Aimee, with a longing look, however, at the pearly
sands, and the creaming waves that now overspread them, now lapsed in
the gleam of the moon.  The dark shadow of the mangroves lay but a
little way on.  It was true that two minutes would reach them; but she
still said, "I dare not."

"Who is there?" cried the sentinel, in his march past the gate.

"No strangers, Claude.  Any news on your watch?"

"None, Mademoiselle."

"All quiet over towards Saint Marc?" inquired Vincent.

"All quiet there, General; and everywhere else when the last reports
came round, ten minutes ago."

"Very well: pass on, good Claude.  Come, come!" he said to Aimee; "who
knows when we may have a moonlight hour again!"

He would not bide another refusal, but, by gentle violence, drew her out
upon the beach, telling the sentinel, as they passed between him and the
water, that if they were inquired for, he might call: they should be
within hearing.  Claude touched his cap, showed his white teeth in a
broad smile, and did not object.

Once among the mangroves, Aimee could not repent.  Their arched
branches, descending into the water, trembled with every wave that
gushed in among them, and stirred the mild air.  The moonlight quivered
on their dark green leaves, and on the transparent pool which lay among
their roots.

"Now, would you not have been sorry if I had not made you come?" said
Vincent.

"If we could only stay--stay here for ever!" she exclaimed, leaning back
against the bush under which they sat.  "Here, amidst the whispering of
the winds and the dash of the waters, you would listen no more for the
roll of the drum, or the booming of cannon at Saint Marc.  I am weary of
our life at Pongaudin."

"Weary of rumour of wars, before we have the wars themselves, love."

"We can never hear anything of my brothers while we are on these terms
with France.  Day after day comes on--day after day, and we have to
toil, and plan, and be anxious; and our guests grow tired, and nothing
is done; and we know that we can hear nothing of what we most want to
learn.  I am certain that my mother spends her nights in tears for her
boys; and nothing is so likely to rouse poor Genifrede as the prospect
of their coming back to us."

"And you yourself, Aimee, cannot be happy without Isaac."

"I never tried," said she.  "I have daily felt his loss, because I
wished never to cease to feel it."

"He is happier than you, dearest Aimee."

"Do not tell me that men feel such separations less than women; for I
know it well already.  I can never have been so necessary to him as he
is to me; I know that well."

"Say `was,' my Aimee.  The time comes when sisters find their brothers
less necessary to them than they have been."

"Such a time has never come to me, and I believe it never will.  No one
can ever be to me what Isaac has been."

"`Has been;'--true.  But see how times have changed!  Isaac has left off
writing to you so frequently as he did--"

"No, no.  He never did write frequently; it was never his habit to write
as I wrote to him."

"Well, well.  Whatever expectation may lie at the bottom of this little
heart, whatever secret remonstrance for his silence, whatever
dissatisfaction with his apologies, whatever mortification that such
apologies were necessary--"

"How dare you--What right have you to pry into my heart?" exclaimed
Aimee, withdrawing herself from her companion's side.

"The right of love," he replied, following till both were seated on the
very verge of the water.  "Can you suppose that I do not see your
disappointment when L'Ouverture opens his dispatches, and there is not
one of that particular size and fold which makes your countenance change
when you see it?  Can you suppose that I do not mark your happiness, for
hours and days, after one of those closely-written sheets has come?--
happiness which makes me feel of no account to you--happiness which
makes me jealous of my very brother--for my brother he is, as he is
yours."

"It should not do that," replied Aimee, as she sat looking into the
water.  "You should not be _angry_ at my being happy.  If you have
learned so much of my thoughts--"

"Say on!  Oh, say on!"

"There is no need," said she, "if you can read the soul without speech,
as you seem to profess."

"I read no thoughts but yours; and none of yours that relate to myself.
I see at a glance every stir of your love to all besides.  If you care
for me, I need to hear it from yourself."

"If this quarrel comes to bloodshed, what will become of my brothers?
If you love me, tell me that."

"Still these brothers!" cried Vincent, impatiently.

"And who should be inquired of concerning them, if not you?  You took
them to France; you left them there--"

"I was sent here by Bonaparte--put on the deputation by his express
command.  If not, I should not now have been here--I should have
remembered you only as a child, and--"

"But Placide and Isaac!  Suppose Leclerc and Rochambeau both killed--
suppose Madame Leclerc entering once more into her brother's presence, a
mourning widow--what would Bonaparte do with Placide and Isaac?  I am
sure you have no comfort to give me, or you would not so evade what I
ask."

"I declare, I protest you are mistaken.  Bonaparte is everything that is
noble, and gracious, and gentle."

"You are sure of that?"

"Nay, why not?  Have I not always said so? and you have delighted to
hear me say so."

"I should delight to believe it now.  I will believe it; but yet, if he
were really noble, how should this quarrel have arisen?  For, if ever
man was noble, and gracious, and gentle, my father is.  If two such men
come to open defiance, whose is the crime, and wherein does it lie?"

"If the world fall to pieces, Aimee, there can be no doubt of
Bonaparte's greatness.  What majesty he carries with him, through all
his conquests!  How whole nations quail under his magnificent
proclamations!"

"Are they really fine?  I have seen but few; and they--"

"Are they not all grand?  That proclamation in Egypt, for instance, in
which he said he was the Man of Fate who had been foretold in the Koran,
and that all resistance was impious and vain!  If it had not happened
four years before Bonaparte went to Egypt, I should have thought your
father--"

"I was just thinking of that.  But there is a great difference.  It was
not my father, but Laveaux, who said that the black chief, predicted by
Raynal, had appeared.  And it was originally said, not as a divine
prophecy, but because, in the natural course of things, the redeemer of
an oppressed race must arise.  Besides, my father says nothing but what
he believes; and I suppose Bonaparte did not believe what he was
saying."

"Do you think not?  For my part, I believe his very words--that to
oppose him is impious and vain."

"Heaven pity us, if that be true!  Was it not in that proclamation that
Bonaparte said that men must account to him for their secret thoughts,
as nothing was concealed from him?"

"Yes; just as L'Ouverture told the mulattoes in the church at Cap that,
from the other side of the island, his eye would be upon them, and his
arm stretched out, to restrain or punish.  He almost reached Bonaparte's
strain there."

"I like my father's words the best, because all understood and believed
what he said.  Bonaparte may claim to read secret thoughts; but before
my father, men have no secret thoughts--they love him so that their
minds stand open."

"Then those Italian proclamations, and letters to the Directory," said
Vincent; "how they grew grander, as city after city, and state after
state, fell before him!  When he summoned Pavia to open her gates to
him, after her insurrection, how imperious he was!  If he had found that
a drop of French blood had been shed, he declared not a stone of the
city should have remained; but a column should arise in its place,
bearing the inscription, `Here once stood Pavia!'  There spoke the man
who held the ages in his hand, ready to roll them over the civilised
world--to crumble cities, and overthrow nations, in case of resistance
to his will!  How Paris rang with acclamations when these words passed
from mouth to mouth!  He was worshipped as a god."

"It is said," sighed Aimee, "that Leclerc has proclamations from him for
our people.  I wonder what they are, and how they will be received."

"With enthusiasm, no doubt.  When and where has it been otherwise?  You
shudder, my Aimee; but, trust me, there is inconceivable folly in the
idea of opposing Bonaparte.  As he said in Egypt, it is impious and
vain.  Trust me, love, and decide accordingly."

"Desert my father and my family in their hour of peril!  I will not do
that."

"There is no peril in the case, love; it is glory and happiness to live
under Bonaparte.  My life upon it, he will do your father no injury, but
continue him in his command, under certain arrangements; and, as for the
blacks, they and the whites will join in one common enthusiasm for the
conqueror of Europe.  Let us be among the first, my Aimee!  Be mine; and
we will go to the French forces--among my friends there.  It is as if we
were called to be mediators; it is as if the welfare of your family and
the colony were, in a measure, consigned to our hands.  Once married,
and with Leclerc, how easily may we explain away causes of quarrel!  How
completely shall we make him understand L'Ouverture!  And how, through
us, Leclerc can put your father in possession of the views of Bonaparte:
Oh, Aimee, be mine, and let us go!"

"And if it were otherwise--if it came to bloodshed--to deadly warfare?"

"Then, love, you would least of all repent.  Alone and desolate--parted
from your brothers--parted from me."

"From you, Vincent?"

"Assuredly.  I can never unsheath my sword against those to whom my
attachment is strong.  I can never fight against an army from Paris--
troops that have been led by Bonaparte."

"Does my father know that?"

"He cannot know me if he anticipates anything else.  I execute his
orders at present, because I admire his system of government, and am
anxious that it should appear to the best advantage to the
brother-in-law of the First Consul.  Thus, I am confident that there
will be no war.  But, love, if there should be, you will be parted for
ever from your brothers and from me, by remaining here--you will never
again see Isaac.  Nay, nay!  No tears! no terrors, my Aimee!  By being
mine, and going with me to that place where all are happy--to Paris--you
will, through my interest, best aid your father; and Isaac and I will
watch over you for ever."

"Not a word more, Vincent!  You make me wretched.  Not a word more, till
I have spoken to my father.  He must, he will tell me what he thinks,
what he expects--whether he fears.  Hark!  There are horsemen!"

"Can it be?  Horsemen approaching on this side?  I will look out."

"No, no!  Vincent, you shall not go--"

Her terror was so great that Vincent could not indeed leave her.  As the
tramp of a company of horsemen became almost lost on quitting the hard
road for the deep sand, he dropped his voice, whispering in her ear that
she was quite safe, completely hidden under the mangroves, and that he
would not leave her.  She clasped his hand with both hers, to compel him
to keep his word, and implored him not to speak--not to shake a leaf of
their covert.

The company passed very near; so near as that the sand thrown up by the
horses' feet pattered among the foliage of the mangroves.  No one of the
strangers was then speaking; but in another moment the sentry challenged
them.  They laughed, and were certainly stopping at the little gate.

"We know your master, fellow," said one.  "We have had more talk with
him in one day than you in all your service."

"I am sure I ought to know that voice," whispered Aimee, drawing a long
breath.

The strangers were certainly intending to pass through the gate into the
grounds; and the sentry was remonstrating.  In another moment he fired,
as a signal.  There was some clamour and laughter, and Aimee started, as
at a voice from the grave.

"That is Isaac's voice!" she exclaimed, springing from her seat.  It was
now Vincent's turn to hold her hands, or she would have been out in the
broad moonlight in an instant.

"Stay, love!  Stay one moment," he entreated.  "I believe you are right;
but let me look out."

She sank down on the sand, while he reconnoitred.  At the moment of his
looking forth, a young man who, he was certain, was Placide, was
good-humouredly taking the sentry by the shoulders, and pushing him from
his place, while saying something in his ear, which made the poor
soldier toss his hat in the air, and run forward to meet his comrades,
whom the sound of his gun was bringing from every direction, over the
sands.

"It is they, indeed," said Vincent.  "Your brothers are both there."

While he was speaking, Aimee burst from the covert, made her way
miraculously through the gathering horses and men, pushed through the
gate, leaving her lover some way behind, flew like a lapwing through the
shrubbery, and across the lawn, was hanging on her brother's neck before
the news of the arrival was understood within the house.

There was no waiting till father and mother could choose where to meet
their children.  The lads followed the messenger into the salon, crowded
as it was with strangers.  L'Ouverture's voice was the first heard,
after the sudden hush.

"Now, Heaven bless Bonaparte for this!" he cried, "and make him a happy
father!"

"Hear him, O God! and bless Bonaparte!" sobbed Margot.

A check was given to their words and their emotions, by seeing by whom
the young men were accompanied.  Therese was leading forward Genifrede,
when she stopped short, with a sort of groan, and returned to her seat,
forgetful at the moment even of Genifrede; for Monsieur Papalier was
there.  Other gentlemen were of the company.  The one whom the young men
most punctiliously introduced to their father was Monsieur Coasson, the
tutor, guardian, or envoy, under whose charge General Leclerc had sent
them home.

Toussaint offered him a warm welcome, as the guardian of his sons; but
Monsieur Coasson himself seemed most impressed with his office of envoy:
as did the gentlemen who accompanied him.  Assuming the air of an
ambassador, and looking round him, as if to require the attention of all
present, Monsieur Coasson discharged himself of his commission, as
follows:--

"General Toussaint--"

"They will not acknowledge him as L'Ouverture," observed Therese to
Madame Pascal and Genifrede.  Afra's eyes filled with tears.  Genifrede
was absorbed in contemplating her brothers--both grown manly, and the
one looking the soldier, the other the student.

"General Toussaint," said Coasson, "I come, the bearer of a letter to
you from the First Consul."

In his hand was now seen a gold box, which he did not, however, deliver
at the moment.

"With it, I am commissioned to offer the greetings of General Leclerc,
who awaits with anxiety your arrival at his quarters as his
Lieutenant-General."

"Upon what does General Leclerc ground his expectation of seeing _me_
there?"

"Upon the ground of the commands of the First Consul, declared in his
proclamation to the inhabitants of Saint Domingo, and, no doubt, more
fully in this letter to yourself."

Here he delivered the box, desiring that the presence of himself and his
companions might be no impediment to General Toussaint's reading his
dispatches.

Toussaint had no intention that they should be any hindrance.  He read
and re-read the letter, while all eyes but those of Aimee were fixed
upon his countenance.  With an expression of the quietest satisfaction,
she was gazing upon her brothers, unvexed by the presence of numbers,
and the transaction of state business.  They were there, and she was
happy.

Those many eyes failed to discover anything from the countenance of
Toussaint.  It was immovable; and Monsieur Coasson was so far
disappointed.  It had been his object to prevent the dispatches which he
brought from being road in private, that he might be enabled to report
how they were received.  He had still another resource.  He announced
that he had brought with him the proclamation of the First Consul to the
inhabitants at large of Saint Domingo.  As it was a public document, he
would, with permission, read it aloud.  Toussaint now looked round, to
command attention to the words of the ruler of France.  Vincent sought
to exchange glances with Aimee; but Aimee had none to spare.  Monsieur
Papalier had unceremoniously entered into conversation with some of the
guests of his own complexion, and did not cease upon any hint, declaring
to those about him, that none of this was new to him, as he was in the
counsels of Bonaparte in all Saint Domingo affairs.  The tone of their
conversation was, however, reduced to a low murmur, while Monsieur
Coasson read aloud the following proclamation:--

"_Paris, November_ 8, 1801.

"Inhabitants of Saint Domingo,

"Whatever your origin or your colour, you are all French: you are all
equal, and all free, before God, and before the Republic.

"France, like Saint Domingo, has been a prey to factions, torn by
intestine commotions and foreign wars.  But all has changed: all nations
have embraced the French, and have sworn to them peace and amity: the
French people have embraced each other, and have sworn to be all friends
and brothers.  Come also, embrace the French, and rejoice to see again
your European friends and brothers!

"The government sends you the Captain-General Leclerc.  He has
brought--"

Here Monsieur Coasson's voice and manner became extremely emphatic.

"He has brought sufficient force for protecting you against your
enemies, and against the enemies of the Republic.  If you are told that
these forces are destined to violate your liberties, reply, `The
Republic will not suffer them to be taken from us.'

"Rally round the Captain-General.  He brings you abundance and peace.
Rally all of you around him.  Whoever shall dare to separate himself
from the Captain-General will be a traitor to his country; and the
indignation of the country will devour him, as the fire devours your
dried canes.

"Done at Paris," etcetera.

"This document is signed, you will perceive," said Monsieur Coasson, "by
the First Consul, and by the Secretary of State, Monsieur H.B. Maret."

Once more it was in vain to explore the countenance of L'Ouverture.  It
was still immovable.  He extended his hand for the document, saying that
he would retire with his secretary, for the purpose of preparing his
replies for the First Consul, in order that no such delays might take
place on his part, as the date of the letter and proclamation showed to
have intervened on the other side.  Meantime, he requested that Monsieur
Coasson, and all whom he had brought in his company, would make
themselves at home in his house; and, turning to his wife and family, he
commended his newly arrived guests to their hospitality.  With a passing
smile and greeting to his sons, he was about to leave the room with
Monsieur Pascal, when Monsieur Coasson intimated that he had one thing
more to say.

"I am directed, General Toussaint," said he, "in case of your refusal to
join the French forces immediately, to convey your sons back to the
guardianship of the Captain-General Leclerc: and it will be my duty to
set out with them at dawn."

A cry of anguish broke forth from Margot, and Placide was instantly by
her side.

"Fear nothing," said Toussaint to her, in a tone which once more fixed
all eyes upon him.  His countenance was no longer unmoved.  It was
convulsed, for a moment, with passion.  He was calm in his manner,
however, as he turned to Monsieur Coasson, and said, "Sir, my sons are
at home.  It rests with myself and with them, what excursions they make
henceforth."

He bowed, and left the room with Monsieur Pascal.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

THE HOUR OF PROOF.

"So the long-expected letter is come at last," observed Monsieur Pascal,
as the study-door closed upon himself and his friend.

"Read it," said Toussaint, putting the letter into the secretary's hand,
and walking up and down the room, till his friend spoke again.

"We hear," said Monsieur Pascal, "that the First Consul understands men.
He may understand some men--the soldiery of France, perhaps--but of
others he knows no more than if he were not himself a man."

"He no more understands my people than myself.  Can it be possible that
he believes that proclamation will be acceptable to them--that mixture
of cajolery and bombast.  He has heard that we are ignorant, and he
concludes that we are without understanding.  What think you of his
promise of abundance by the hands of Leclerc?  As if it were not their
cupidity, excited by our abundance, which has brought these thousands of
soldiers to our shores!  They are welcome to it all--to our harvests,
our money, and our merchandise--if they would not touch our freedom."

"Bonaparte has a word to say to that in his letter to you," observed the
secretary.  "What can you desire?  The freedom of the blacks?  You know
that in all the countries we have been in, we have given it to the
people who had it not?  What say the Venetians to that?  What says the
Pope!"

"Does he suppose us deaf," replied Toussaint, "that we have not heard of
the fate of our race in Guadaloupe, and Martinique, and Cayenne?  Does
he suppose us blind, that we do not see the pirates he has commissioned
hovering about the shores of Africa, as the vulture preparing to strike
his prey?  Ignorant as we are, does he suppose us stupid enough to be
delighted when, free already, we find ourselves surrounded by fifty-four
war-ships, which come to promise us liberty?"

"He does not know, apparently, how our commerce with the world brings us
tidings of all the world."

"And if it were not so--if his were the first ships that our eyes had
ever seen--does he not know that the richest tidings of liberty come,
not through the eye and ear, but from the heart?  Does he not know that
the liberties of Saint Domingo, large as they are, everlasting as they
will prove to be--all sprang from here and here?"--pointing to his head
and heart.  "This is he," he continued, "who has been king in my
thoughts, from the hour when I heard of the artillery officer who had
saved the Convention!  This is he to whom I have felt myself bound as a
brother in destiny and in glory!  This is he with whom I hoped to share
the lot of reconciling the quarrel of races and of ages!  In the eye of
the world he may be great, and I the bandit captain of a despised race.
On the page of history he may be magnified, and I derided.  But I spurn
him for a hero--I reject him for a brother.  My rival he may make
himself.  His soul is narrow, and his aims are low.  He might have been
a god to the world, and he is a tyrant.  We have followed him with
wistful eyes, to see him loosen bonds with a divine touch; and we find
him busy forging new chains.  He has sullied his divine commission; and
while my own remains pure, he is no brother of my soul.  You, my friend,
knew him better than I, or you would not have left his service for
mine."

"Yet I gave him credit for a better appreciation of you, a clearer
foresight of the destiny of this colony, than he has shown."

"While we live, my friend, we must accept disappointment.  In my youth,
I learned to give up hope after hope; and one of the brightest I must
now relinquish in my old age."

"Two brilliant ones have, however, entered your dwelling this evening,
my friend," said the secretary.

"My boys?  Are they not?--But these are times to show what they are.  In
the joy of having them back, I might have forgiven and forgotten
everything, but for the claim--You heard, Pascal?"

"About their leaving you at dawn.  Yes; that was amusing."

"If they will not consider a negro a man, they might have remembered
that beasts are desperate to recover the young that they have lost.
Leclerc will find, however, that this night will make men of my sons.  I
will call them my boys no more; and never more shall this envoy call
them his pupils, or his charge.  These French will find that there is
that in this Saint Domingo of ours which quickly ripens young wits, and
makes the harvest ready in a day.  Let them beware the reaping; for it
is another sort of harvest than they look for.--But come," said he: "it
is late; and we have to answer the letter of this foreigner--this
stranger to my race and nature."

He took some papers from his pocket, sat down beside the friend, and
said, with the countenance of one who has heard good news, "See here how
little they comprehend how negroes may be friends!  See here the proofs
that they understand my Henri no better than myself."

And he put into the hands of his secretary those fine letters of
Christophe, which do everlasting honour to his head and heart, and show
that he bore a kingly soul before he adorned the kingly office.  As
Monsieur Pascal road the narrative of Leclerc's attempts to alarm, to
cajole, and to bribe Christophe to betray his friend's cause, and
deliver up his person, the pale countenance of the secretary became now
paler with anger and disgust, now flushed with pleasure and admiration.

"Here is the friend that sticketh closer than a brother," said he.

"Alas! poor Paul! he will be faithful, Pascal; but he can never again
love me."

"Pardon me, I entreat you.  I meant no allusion."

"You did not.  But everything serves as an allusion there; for Paul is
never out of my mind.  Now for our letters;--that to Leclerc modified,
as you perceive, by our knowledge of what has passed between him and
Henri."

"Modified, indeed!" exclaimed Pascal.

Their proceedings were destined to be further modified by the events of
this night.  Tidings as black as the darkest night that ever brooded
over the island in the season of storms poured in to overshadow the
prospects of the negroes, and the hopes of their chief.

It was after midnight when, in the midst of their quiet consultation,
Toussaint and his secretary thought they heard voices at the gate.
Toussaint was going to ascertain, when he was met in the hall by news
that a messenger from the south-west had arrived.  The messenger
entered, halting and slow.

"It is--no," said Pascal; "surely it cannot be--"

"Is it possible that you are Jacques?" exclaimed Toussaint, his eyes
shaded by his hand.

"I am Dessalines," said the wounded man, who had already sunk upon a
seat.

"Why come yourself, in this state!" cried Toussaint, hastening to
support him.

"I could more easily come than write my news," replied Dessalines; "and
it is news that I would commit to no man's ear but your own."

"Shall I go?" asked Monsieur Pascal of Toussaint.

"No.  Stay and hear.  Tell us your tidings, Jacques."

"I am as well here as down in the south-west, or you would not have seen
me."

"You mean that all is lost there?"

"All is lost there."

"While the enemy is beguiling us with letters, and talk of truce!"
observed Toussaint to Pascal.  "Where was your battle, Jacques?  How can
all the west be lost?"

"The French have bought La Plume.  They told him your cause was
desperate, and promised him honours and office in France.  Get me cured,
and let me win a battle for you, and I have no doubt I can buy him back
again.  Meantime--"

"Meantime, what has Domage done?  Is he with me or La Plume?  And is
Chaney safe?"

"Domage never received your instructions.  La Plume carried them, and no
doubt, your aide-de-camp also, straight to the French.  Chaney has not
been seen: he is traitor or prisoner."

"Then Cayes is not burned, nor Jeremie defended?"

"Neither the one nor the other.  Both are lost; and so is
Port-au-Prince.  My troops and I did our best at the Croix de Bosquets:
but what could we do in such a case?  I am here, wounded within an inch
of my life; and they are in the fastnesses.  You were a doctor once,
L'Ouverture.  Set me up again; and I will gather my men from the
mountains, and prick these whites all across the peninsula into the
sea."

"I will be doctor, or nurse, or anything, to save you, Jacques."

"What if I have more bad news?  Will you not hate me?"

"Lose no time, my friend.  This is no hour for trifling."

"There is no room for trifling, my friend.  I fear--I am not certain--
but I fear the east is lost."

"Is Clerveaux bought too?"

"Not bought.  He is more of your sort than La Plume's.  He is
incorruptible by money; but he likes the French, and he loves peace.  He
would be a very brother to you, if he only loved liberty better than
either.  As it is, he is thought to have delivered over the whole east,
from the Isabella to Cap Samana, without a blow."

"And my brother!"

"He has disappeared from the city.  He did not yield; but he could do
nothing by himself, or with only his guard.  He disappeared in the
night, and is thought to have put off! by water.  You will soon hear
from him, I doubt not.  Now I have told my news, and I am faint.  Where
is Therese?"

"She is here.  Look more like yourself, and she shall be called.  You
have told all your news?"

"All; and I am glad it is out."

"Keep up your heart, Dessalines!  I have you and Henri; and God is with
the faithful.--Now to your bed, my friend."

Instead of the attendants who were summoned, Therese entered.  She spoke
no word, but aided by her servant, had her husband carried to his
chamber.  When the door was closed, sad and serious as were the tidings
which had now to be acted upon, the secretary could not help asking
L'Ouverture if he had ever seen Madame Dessalines look as she did just
now.

"Yes," he replied, "on certain occasions, some years since.--But here
she is again."

Therese came to say that her husband had yet something to relate into
Toussaint's own ear before he could sleep; but, on her own part, she
entreated that she might first be permitted to dress his wounds.

"Send for me when you think fit, and I will come, madame.  But, Therese,
one word.  I am aware that Monsieur Papalier is here.  Do not forget
that you are a Christian, and pledged to forgive injuries."

"You think you read my thoughts, L'Ouverture; but you do not.  Listen,
and I am gone.  His voice once had power over me through love, and then
through hatred.  I never miss the lightest word he speaks.  I heard him
tell his old friends from Cap that I was his slave, and that the time
was coming when masters would claim their own again.  Now you know my
thoughts."

And she was gone.

When Toussaint returned from his visit to Dessalines' chamber, he found
Monsieur Pascal sitting with his face hid in his hands.

"Meditation is good," said Toussaint, laying his hand on his friend's
shoulder.  "Lamentation is unworthy."

"It is so; and we have much to do," replied the secretary, rousing
himself.

"Fear not," resumed Toussaint, "but that your bride will bloom in the
air of the mountains.  We may have to entrench ourselves in the mornes--
or, at least, to place there our ladies, and the civil officers of the
government; but we ought to thank God for providing those natural homes,
so full of health and beauty, for the free in spirit.  I have still
three brigades, and the great body of the cultivators, in reserve; but
we shall all act with stronger hearts if our heart's treasure is safe in
the mornes."

"Are we to lose Dessalines?" asked Monsieur Pascal.

"I believe not.  He is severely wounded, and, at this moment,
exasperated.  He vows the death of Monsieur Papalier; and I vow his
safety while he is my guest."

"Papalier and Madame Dessalines cannot exist in one house."

"And therefore must this deputation be dismissed early in the morning,
if there were no other reasons.  Notice must be carried to them with
their coffee, that I am awaiting them with my replies.  Those delivered,
negotiation is at an end, and we must act.  My foes have struck the blow
which unties my hands."

"What has Monsieur Papalier to do with the deputation?"

"Nothing, but that he uses its protection to attempt to resume his
estates.  They are in commission; and he may have them; though not, as
he thinks, with men and women as part of his chattels.  No more of him."

"Of whom next, then?  Except Christophe, who is there worthy to be named
by you?" asked Monsieur Pascal, with emotion.

"Every one who has deserted us, except, perhaps, La Plume.  He is
sordid; and I dismiss him.  As for Clerveaux and his thousands, they
have been weak, but not, perhaps, wicked.  They may be recovered.  I
take the blame of their weakness upon myself.  Would that I alone could
bear the consequences!"

"You take the blame of their weakness?  Is not their former slavery the
cause of it?  Is there anything in their act but the servility in which
they were reared?"

"There is much of that.  But I have deepened the taint, in striving to
avoid the opposite corruption of revenge.  I have the taint myself.  The
stain of slavery exists in the First of the Blacks himself.  Let all
others, then, be forgiven.  They may thus be recovered.  I gave them the
lesson of loving and trusting the whites.  They have done so, to the
point of being treacherous to me.  I must now give them another lesson,
and time to learn it; and they may possibly be redeemed."

"You will hold out in the mornes--conduct your resistance on a pinnacle,
where the eyes of the blacks may be raised to you--fixed upon you."

"Just so;--and where they may flock to me, when time shall have taught
them my principle and my policy, and revealed the temper and purpose of
our invaders.  Now, then, to prepare!"

Before dawn, the despatches for the French, on the coast and at home,
were prepared; and messengers were dismissed, in every direction, with
orders by which the troops which remained faithful would be
concentrated, the cultivators raised and collected, stores provided in
the fastnesses, and the new acquisitions of the enemy rendered useless
to them.  Never had the heads of these two able men, working in perfect
concert, achieved such a mass of work in a single night.

A little after sunrise, the French party appeared in the salon, where
already almost every member of the household was collected; all being
under the impression that a crisis had arrived, and that memorable words
were about to be spoken.

Toussaint acknowledged the apparent discourtesy of appointing the hour
for the departure of his guests; but declared that he had no apology to
offer:--that the time for courteous observance was past, when his guests
were discovered to be sent merely to amuse and disarm him for the hour,
while blows were struck at a distance against the liberties of his race.
In delivering his despatches, he said, he was delivering his farewell.
Within an hour, the deputation and himself must be travelling in
different directions.

Monsieur Coasson, on receiving the packets, said that he had no other
desire than to be on his way.  There could be no satisfaction, and
little safety, in remaining in a house where, under a hypocritical
pretence of magnanimity and good-will, there lurked a spirit of hideous
malice, of diabolical revenge, towards a race to whom nature, and the
universal consent of men, had given a superiority which they could never
lose.

In unaffected surprise, Toussaint looked in the face of the envoy,
observing that, for himself, he disclaimed all such passion and such
dissimulation as his household was charged with.

"Of course you do," replied Coasson: "but I require not your testimony.
The men of a family may, where there is occasion, conceal its ruling
passion: but, where there is occasion, it will be revealed by the
women."

Toussaint's eyes, like every one's else, turned to the ladies of his
family.  It was not Madame L'Ouverture that was intended, for her
countenance asked of her husband what this could mean.  It could not be
Aimee, who now stood drowned in tears, where she could best conceal her
grief.  Genifrede explained.  She told calmly, and without the slightest
confusion, that Monsieur Coasson had sought a conversation with her, for
the purpose of winning over her feelings, and her influence with her
father, to the side of the French.  He had endeavoured to make her
acknowledge that the whole family, with the exception of its head, were
in favour of peace, admirers of Bonaparte, and aware that they were
likely to be victims to the ambition of their father.  Her reply, in
which she declared that she gloried, was that the deepest passion of her
soul was hatred of the whites; and that she prayed for their
annihilation.

"And did you also declare, my daughter," said Toussaint, "that in this
you differ from us all?  Did you avow that your parents look upon this
passion in you as a disease, for which you have their daily and nightly
prayers?"

"I did declare, my father, that I alone of the Ouvertures know how to
feel for the wrongs of my race.  But Monsieur Coasson did not believe
me, and vowed that we should all suffer for the opinions held by me
alone."

"It is true, I did not believe, nor do I now believe," said Coasson,
"that the devil would single out one of a family, to corrupt her heart
with such atrocious hatred as that whose avowal chilled the marrow of my
bones.  It was her countenance of wretchedness that attracted me.  I saw
that she was less capable of dissimulation than the rest of you; and so
I have found."

"A wise man truly has the Captain-General chosen for an envoy!" observed
Toussaint: "a wise and an honourable man!  He sees woe in the face of a
woman, and makes it his instrument for discovering the secret souls of
her family.  Blindly bent upon this object, and having laid open, as he
thinks, one heart, he reads the rest by it.  But he may, with all his
wisdom, and all this honour, be no less ignorant than before he saw us.
So far from reading all our souls, he has not even read the suffering
one that he has tempted.  You have opened the sluices of the waters of
bitterness in my child's soul, Monsieur Coasson, but you have not found
the source."

"Time will show that," observed the envoy.

"It will," replied Toussaint; "and also the worth of your threat of
revenge for the words of my suffering child.  I have no more to say to
you.--My sons!"

Placide sprang to his side, and Isaac followed.

"I no longer call you boys; for the choice of this hour makes you men.
The Captain-General insists that you go from me.  He has no right to do
so.  Neither have I a right to bid you stay.  Hear, and decide for
yourselves.--The cause of the blacks is not so promising as it appeared
last night.  News has arrived, from various quarters, of defeat and
defection.  Our struggle for our liberties will be fierce and long.  It
will never be relinquished; and my own conviction is, that the cause of
the blacks will finally prevail; that Saint Domingo will never more
belong to France.  The ruler of France has been a guardian to you--an
indulgent guardian.  I do not ask you to tight against him."

The faces of both the young men showed strong and joyful emotion; but it
was not the same emotion in them both.

"Decide according to your reason and your hearts, my children, whether
to go or stay; remembering the importance of your choice."  Putting a
hand on the shoulder of each, he said impressively, "Go to the
Captain-General, or remain with me.  Whichever you do, I shall always
equally love and cherish you."

Margot looked upon her sons, as if awaiting from them life or death.
Aimee's face was still hidden in her handkerchief.  She had nothing to
learn of her brother's inclinations.

Isaac spoke before Placide could open his lips.

"We knew, father," he said, "that your love and your rare liberality--
that liberality which gave us our French education--would not fail now.
And this it is that persuades me that this quarrel cannot proceed to
extremities--that it will not be necessary for your sons to take any
part, as you propose.  When Placide and I think of you--your love of
peace, your loyalty, and your admiration of Bonaparte; and then, when we
think of Bonaparte--his astonishment at what you have done in the
colony, and the terms in which he always spoke of you to us--when we
consider how you two are fitted to appreciate each other, we cannot
believe but that the Captain-General and you will soon be acting in
harmony, for the good of both races.  But for this assurance, we could
hardly have courage to return."

"Speak for yourself alone, Isaac," said his brother.

"Well, then: I say for myself, that, but for this certainly, it would
almost break my heart to leave you so soon again, though to go at
present no further off than Tortuga.  But I am quite confident that
there will soon be perfect freedom of intercourse among all who are on
the island."

"You return with me?" asked Monsieur Coasson.

"Certainly, as my father gives me my choice.  I feel myself bound, in
honour and gratitude, to return, instead of appearing to escape, at the
very first opportunity, from those with whom I can never quarrel.
Returning to Leclerc, under his conditional orders, can never be
considered a declaration against my father: while remaining here,
against Leclerc's orders, is an undeniable declaration against Bonaparte
and France--a declaration which I never will make."

"I stay with my father," said Placide.

"Your reasons?" asked Monsieur Coasson; "that I may report them to the
Captain-General."

"I have no reasons," replied Placide; "or, if I have, I cannot recollect
them now.  I shall stay with my father."

"Welcome home, my boy!" said Toussaint; "and Isaac, my son, may God
bless you, wherever you go."

And he opened his arms to them both.

"I am not afraid," said Madame L'Ouverture, timidly, as if scarcely
venturing to say so much--"I am not afraid but that, happen what may, we
can always make a comfortable home for Placide."

"Never mind comfort, mother: and least of all for me.  We have something
better than comfort to try for now."

"Give me your blessing, too, father," said Aimee, faintly, as Isaac led
her forward, and Vincent closely followed.  "You said you would bless
those that went, and those that stayed; and I am going with Isaac."

The parents were speechless; so that Isaac could explain that the
Captain-General offered a welcome to as many of the Ouvertures as were
disposed to join him; and that Madame Leclerc had said that his sisters
would find a home and protection with her.

"And I cannot separate from Isaac yet," pleaded Aimee.  "And with Madame
Leclerc--"

"General Vincent," said Toussaint, addressing his aide before noticing
his daughter, "have the goodness to prepare for an immediate journey.  I
will give you your commission when you are ready to ride."

After one moment's hesitation, Vincent bowed, and withdrew.  He was not
prepared to desert his General while actually busy in his affairs.  He
reflected that the great object (in order to the peace and
reconciliation he hoped for) was to serve, and keep on a good
understanding with, both parties.  He would discharge this commission,
and then follow Aimee and her brother, as he had promised.  Thus he
settled with himself, while he ordered his horses, and prepared for
departure.

Toussaint was sufficiently aware that he should prosper better without
his shallow-minded and unstable aide; but he meant to retain him about
his person, on business in his service, till Aimee should have
opportunity, in his absence, to explore her own mind, and determine her
course, while far from the voice of the tempter.

"Go with your brother, Aimee," he said, "rather than remain unwillingly
with us.  Whenever you wish it, return.  You will find our arms ever
open to you."

And he blessed her, as did her weeping mother--the last, however, not
without a word of reproach.

"Oh, Aimee, why did not you tell me?"

"Mother, I did not know myself--I was uncertain--I was--Oh, mother! it
will not be for long.  It is but a little way: and Isaac and I shall
soon write.  I will tell you everything about Madame Leclerc.  Kiss me
once more, mother; and take care of Genifrede."

As Toussaint abruptly turned away, with a parting bow to the envoy, and
entered the piazza, on his way to the urgent business of the day, and as
the shortest escape from the many eyes that were upon him, he
encountered Monsieur Pascal, who stood awaiting him there.

"My friend!" said Monsieur Pascal, with emotion, as he looked in the
face of Toussaint.

"Ay, Pascal: it is bitter.  Bonaparte rose up as my rival; and
cheerfully did I accept him for such, in the council and in the field.
But now he is my rival in my family.  He looks defiance at me through my
children's eyes.  It is too much.  God give me patience!"

Monsieur Pascal did not speak; for what could he say?



CHAPTER THIRTY.

SPECULATION IN THE PLATEAUX.

Pongaudin was no longer safe, as head-quarters for the
Commander-in-chief, his family, and guests.  The defeats which had been
sustained were bad enough; but the defection was worse.  Amidst the
contagion of defection there was no saying who, out of the circle of
immediate friends, might next join the French for the sake of peace; and
for the sake of peace, perhaps, deliver up the persons of the
Ouvertures, with their wounded friend, Dessalines, and the brave young
officers who formed the guard of the household.  Christophe's letters
had already proved to Toussaint and his secretary, that no reliance was
to be placed on the honour of the French, in their dealings with
negroes.  Cajolery in speech, covering plots against their persons,
appeared to be considered the conduct appropriate to business with
blacks, who had no concern, it seemed, with the usages of war, as
established among whites.  La Plume had fallen by bribery; Clerveaux by
cajolery; and both means had been attempted with Christophe.  The troops
were assailed on the side of their best affections.  They were told that
Leclerc came to do honour to L'Ouverture--to thank him for his
government of the island during the troubles of France, and to convoy to
him the approbation of the First Consul, in papers enclosed in a golden
box.  It is probable that, if they had not heard from Toussaint's own
lips of the establishment of slavery in the other French colonies, the
authorisation of the slave-trade, and the threat to do what was
convenient with Saint Domingo--all the negroes would have made the
French welcome, as Clerveaux had done.  As it was, large numbers
unquestionably remained faithful to their liberties and their chief--
enough, as Toussaint never doubted, to secure their liberties at last:
but how many, and after how long and arduous a struggle, it remained for
time to show.

Many houses had been offered as a retreat for the household of the
Commander-in-chief.  The one chosen this day was his friend Raymond's
cacao-plantation, Le Zephyr, in the Mornes du Chaos--among the mountains
which retired above the light bank of the Artibonite.  It was a spacious
mansion, sheltered from storms, but enjoying a pleasant mountain air--
the most wholesome that could be found, if the retreat should continue
through the hot season.  It was surrounded with never-failing springs of
pure water.  There were kids on all the hills, and cattle in every
valley round.  Grain and fruits were in the fields and gardens; and it
was thought that one well-guarded post, at a pass below the Plateaux de
la Ravine, would render the place inaccessible to the enemy.  To the
satisfaction of Raymond and his daughter, and the delight of Euphrosyne,
this, their beloved summer mansion, was fixed on for the abode of the
whole party, provided Toussaint should find, on examination, that it
would answer his purposes as well as was now supposed.

Such was the plan settled presently after the deputation had left the
gates--settled among the few confidential friends, whose tastes, as well
as interests, Toussaint chose to consult.  Madame Dessalines was among
those; and one of the most eager to be gone.  She engaged to remove her
husband safely to a place where his recovery must proceed better than
among the agitations of Pongaudin.  By one of these agitations her
desire to go had been much quickened.  Before the departure of the
deputation, she had chanced to meet Monsieur Papalier in one of the
corridors, equipped for his journey.  She could not avoid passing him;
and he had greeted her with a significant "Au revoir, Therese."
Fervently she prayed that she might never meet him again; and anxious
was she to be gone to a place where he could not come.

Before noon, L'Ouverture, with Placide riding by his side, and followed
by some officers, who were themselves followed by a few soldiers, was
among the heights which commanded the plain of the Artibonite on one
side, and on the other the valleys which lay between their party and the
Gros Morne.  They had visited Le Zephyr, and were now about to examine
the pass where their post was to be established.

"This heat, Placide," said his father, as the sun beat down upon their
heads, "is it not too much for you?  Perhaps you had better--But I beg
your pardon," he added, smiling; "I had forgotten that you are no longer
my growing boy, Placide, whom I must take care of.  I beg your pardon,
Placide; but it is so new to me to have a manly son beside me--!"

And he looked at him with eyes of pride.

Placide told how often at Paris he had longed to bask in such a sunshine
as this, tempered by the fragrant breezes from the mountain-side.  He
was transported now to hear the blows of the axe in the woods, and the
shock of the falling trunks, as the hewers of the logwood and the
mahogany trees were at their hidden work.  He was charmed with the songs
of the cultivators which rose from the hot plain below, where they were
preparing the furrows for the indigo-sowing.  He greeted every housewife
who, with her children about her, was on her knees by the
mountain-stream, washing linen, and splashing her little ones in sport.
All these native sights and sounds, so unlike Paris, exhilarated Placide
in the highest degree.  He was willing to brave either heats or
hurricanes on the mountains, for the sake of thus feeling himself once
more in his tropical home.

"One would think it a time of peace," said he, "with the wood-cutters
and cultivators all about us.  Where will be the first cropping from
those indigo-fields?  And, if that is saved, where will be the second!"

"Of that last question, ask me again when we are alone," replied his
father.  "As for the rest, it is by no will of mine that our people are
to be called off from their wood-cutting and their tillage.  To the last
moment, you see, I encourage the pursuits of peace.  But, if you could
see closely these men in the forest and the fields, you would find that,
as formerly, they have the cutlass at their belt, and the rifle slung
across their shoulders.  They are my most trusty soldiery."

"Because they love you best, and owe most to you.  What has Vincent
discovered below there--far-off?  Have you your glass, father?"

"The deputation, perhaps," said Toussaint.

"Yes: there they are!  They have crossed the Trois Rivieres, and they
are creeping up towards Plaisance.  What a mere handful the party looks
at this distance!  What mere insects to be about to pull the thunder
down upon so many heads!  What an atom of space they cover!  Yet
Vincent's heart is on that little spot, I believe.  Is it not so,
father?"

"Yes! unless some of it is, as I fear, with the fleet beyond the ridge."

"He will be missing, some day soon, then."

"For his own sake and Aimee's, I trust not.  This step of hers has
disconcerted me: but no harm can be done by detaining Vincent in honour
near me, till the turn of events may decide his inclinations in favour
of Aimee's father, and of his own race.  Detained he must be, for the
present, in dishonour, if not in honour: for he knows too much of my
affairs to be allowed to see Leclerc.  If Aimee returns to us, or if we
gain a battle, Vincent will be ours without compulsion.  Meantime, I
keep him always employed beside me."

"This is the place for our post, surely," said Placide.  "See how the
rocks are rising on either hand above this level!  No one could pass
here whom we choose to obstruct."

"Yes: this is the spot; these are the Plateaux," replied his father,
awaiting the officers and soldiers--the latter being prepared with
tools, to mark out and begin their work.

While the consultations and measurements were going on, Placide's eye
was caught by the motion of a young fawn in the high grass of a lawny
slope, on one side of the valley.  He snatched the loaded rifle which
one of the soldiers had exchanged for a spade and fired.  The passion
for sport was instantly roused by the act.  Kids were seen here and
there on the rocks.  Marks were not wanting: and first Vincent, and then
one and another, followed Placide's example; and there were several
shots at the same instant, whose echoes reverberated to the delighted
ear of Placide, who was sorry when the last had died away among the
mountain-tops.

"Your first and last sport for to-day," observed Toussaint.  "You have
given the game a sufficient alarm for the present."

"We must find our game, as we have shot it," exclaimed Vincent.  "My kid
is not far-off."

"After it, then!  You will find me under the large cotton-tree yonder.
The heat is too great here, Placide, between these walls of rock."

Every man of the party was off in pursuit of his game, except Placide,
who remained to ask his father, now they were alone, what was to happen
at the season of the second indigo-cutting.  They threw themselves down
beneath the cotton-tree, which with its own broad shades, deepened by
the masses of creepers which twined and clustered about it, and weighed
it down on every side, afforded as complete a shelter from the shower of
sun-rays as any artificial roof could have done.

"The second indigo-cutting is in August, you know," said Toussaint.
"August will decide our freedom, if it is not decided before.  August is
the season when Nature comes in as our ally--comes in with her army of
horrors, which we should not have the heart to invoke, but which will
arrive, with or without our will; and which it will be the fault of the
French themselves if they brave."

"Foul airs and pestilence, you mean!" said Placide.

"I mean foul airs and pestilence.  All our plans, my son--(it is a
comfort to make a counsellor of my own son!)--all the plans of my
generals and myself are directed to provide for our defence till August,
certain that then the French will be occupied in grappling with a
deadlier foe than even men fighting for their liberties."

"Till August!" repeated Placide.  "Nearly six months!  I scarcely think
the French could hold their footing so long, if--but that--"

"If what?  Except for what?"

"If it were not for the tremendous reinforcements which I fear will be
sent."

"I thought so," said his father.

"All France is eager to come," continued Placide.  "The thousands who
are here (about twelve thousand, I fancy; but they did what they could
to prevent our knowing the numbers exactly)--the thousands who are here
are looked upon with envy by those who are left behind.  The jealousy
was incredible--the clamour to gain appointments to the Saint Domingo
expedition."

"To be appointed to pestilence in the hospitals, and a grave in the
sands!" exclaimed Toussaint.  "It is strange!  Frenchmen enough have
died here, in seasons of trouble, to convince all France that only in
times of peace, leisure, stillness, and choice of residence, have
Europeans a fair chance of life here, for a single year.  It is strange
that they do not foresee their own death-angels clustering on our
shores."

"The delusion is so strong," said Placide, "that I verily believe that
if these twelve thousand were all dead to-day, twenty thousand more
would be ready to come to-morrow.  If every officer was buried here, the
choicest commanders there would press forward over their graves.  If
even the Leclercs should perish, I believe that other relatives of the
First Consul, and perhaps some other of his sisters, would kneel to him,
as these have done, to implore him to appoint them to the new expedition
to Saint Domingo."

"The madness of numbers is never without an open cause," said Toussaint.
"What is the cause here?"

"Clear and plain enough.  The representations of the emigrants coming in
aid of the secret wishes of Bonaparte, have, under his encouragement,
turned the heads of his family, his court, and after them, of his
people."

"The emigrants sigh for their country (and it is a country to sigh
after), and they look back on their estates and their power, I suppose;
while the interval of ten years dims in their memories all
inconveniences from the climate, and from the degradation of their
order."

"They appear to forget that any form of evil but Oge and you, father,
ever entered their paradise.  They say that, but for you, they might
have been all this while in paradise.  They have boasted of its wealth
and its pleasures, till there is not a lady in the court of France who
does not long to come and dwell in palaces of perfumed woods, marbles,
and gold and silver.  They dream of passing the day in breezy shades,
and of sipping the nectar of tropical fruits, from hour to hour.  They
think a good deal, too, of the plate and wines, and equipages, and
trains of attendants, of which they have heard so much; and at the same
time, of martial glory and laurel crowns."

"So these are the ideas with which they have come to languish on
Tortuga, and be buried in its sands!  These emigrants have much to
answer for."

"So Isaac and I perpetually told them; but they would not listen to
anything said by an Ouverture.  Nor could we wonder at this, when
persons of every colour were given to the same boastings; so that Isaac
and I found ourselves tempted into a like strain upon occasion."

"It appears as if the old days had returned," said Toussaint; "the days
of Columbus and his crows.  We are as the unhappy Indians to the
rapacity of Europe.  No wonder, if mulattoes and blacks speak of the
colony as if it were the old Hayti."

"They do, from Lanville, the coffee-planter, to our Mars Plaisir.  Mars
Plaisir has brought orders for I do not know how many parrots; and for
pearls, and perfumes, and spices, and variegated woods."

"Is it possible?" said Toussaint, smiling.  "Does he really believe his
own stories?  If so, that accounts for his staying with you, instead of
going with Isaac; which I wondered at.  I thought he could not have
condescended to us, after having lived in France."

"He condescends to be wherever he finds most scope for boasting.  On
Tortuga, or among the ashes of Cap, he can boast no more.  With us he
can extol France, as there he extolled Saint Domingo.  If August brings
the destruction we look for, the poor fellow ought to die of remorse;
but he has not head enough to suffer for the past.  You can hold out
till August, father?"

"If Maurepas joins us here with his force, I have no doubt of holding
out till August.  In these mornes, as many as will not yield might
resist for life; but my own forces, aided by those of Maurepas, may
effectually keep off the grasp of the French from all places but those
in which they are actually quartered.  A few actions may be needful,--
morally needful,--to show them that the blacks can fight.  If this
lesson will not suffice, August, alas! will exterminate the foe.  What
do I see stirring among the ferns there?  Is it more game?"

Placide started up.

"Too near us for game," he whispered; and then added aloud, "Shall we
carry home another deer?  Shall I fire?"

At these words, some good French was heard out of the tall, tree-like
ferns,--voices of men intreating that no one would fire; and two
Frenchman presently appeared, an army and a navy officer.

"How came you here, gentlemen?  Are you residents in the colony?"

"If we had been, we should not have lost ourselves, as you perceive we
have done.  We are sent by the Captain-General to parley, as a last hope
of avoiding the collision which the Captain-General deprecates.  Here
are our credentials, by which you will discover our names,--Lieutenant
Martin," pointing to his companion, "and Captain Sabes," bowing for
himself.

"It is too late for negotiation, gentlemen," said L'Ouverture, "as the
news from the south will already have informed the Captain-General.  I
regret the accident of your having lost your way, as it will deprive you
for a time of your liberty.  You must be aware that, voluntarily or
involuntarily, you have fulfilled the office of spies; and for the
present, therefore, I cannot part with you.  Placide, summon our
attendants, and, with them, escort these gentlemen to Le Zephyr.  I
shall soon join you there, and hear anything that your charge may have
to say."

The officers protested, but in vain.

"It is too late, gentlemen.  You may thank your own commanders for
compelling me to run no more risks--for having made trust in a French
officer's honour a crime to my own people.  You may have heard and seen
so much that I am compelled to hold you prisoners.  As I have no proof,
however, that you are spies, your lives are safe."

In answer to Placide's shout--the well-known mountain-cry which he was
delighted to revive--their followers appeared on all sides, some
bringing in their game, some empty-handed.  The French officers saw that
escape was impossible.  Neither had they any thought, but for a passing
moment, of fighting for their liberty.  The Ouvertures were completely
armed; and there never was an occasion when a man would lightly engage,
hand-to-hand, with Toussaint or his son.

Half the collected party, including Vincent, accompanied Toussaint to
Pongaudin.  The other half escorted Placide and his prisoners up the
morne to Le Zephyr; these carried all the game for a present provision.

Placide observed an interchange of glances between his prisoners as they
passed the spades, pick-axes, and fresh-dug earth in the plateaus.  He
had little idea how that glance was connected with the romancing he had
just been describing; nor how much of insult and weary suffering it
boded to his father.



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

RETREAT.

Pongaudin was indeed no longer safe.  Immediately on the return of
Coasson to the fleet, under the date of the 17th of February, the
Captain-General issued a proclamation of outlawry against L'Ouverture
and Christophe, pronouncing it the imperative duty of every one who had
the power to seize and deliver up the traitors.  As Toussaint said to
his family, Pongaudin was a residence for a citizen; outlaws must go to
the mountains.

To the mountain they went--not weeping and trembling, but in a temper of
high courage and hope.  The rocks rang with the military music which
accompanied them.  Their very horses seemed to feel the spirit of their
cause; much more were the humblest of the soldiery animated with the
hope of success in the struggle, which was now to be carried on in a
mode which they much preferred to keeping watch in the plains.  They
found the pass well fortified; they found the morne above it still and
undisturbed; untrod, as it seemed now likely to remain, by the foot of
an invader.  They found the mansion at Le Zephyr, spacious as it was,
much enlarged by temporary erections, and prepared for the abode of more
than the number that had come.  Madame Pascal looked at her husband with
a sigh, when the alterations met her eye; and Raymond himself did not
much relish seeing sentinels posted at all his gates.  Euphrosyne,
however, was still quite happy.  Here was her beloved Le Zephyr, with
its blossoming cacao-groves.  Here were space, freedom, and friends; and
neither convent rules nor nuns.

A perpetual line of communication was established between the pass and
this mansion.  Vincent, with a troop, was appointed to guard the estate
and the persons on it--including the two French prisoners.  Placide was
to join his father below, to receive the forces which flocked to the
rendezvous.  Before he went, he pointed out to Vincent, and his own
family, a station, on a steep at some distance in the rear of the house,
whence they might discern, with a good glass, the road which wound
through the plain of the Artibonite, within two miles of the Plateaux,
and up towards Plaisance to the north.  Many and wonderful were the
objects seen from this lofty station; but not one of them--not even the
green knolls and hollows of the morne, stretched out from Le Zephyr to
the pass--not the brimming river of the plain--not the distant azure
sea, with its tufted isles--was so interesting, under present
circumstances, as this yellow winding road--the way of approach of
either friend or foe.

But for the apprehensions belonging to a state of warfare--apprehensions
which embitter life in all its hours to women--and, possibly, more than
is generally acknowledged, to men--but for the speculations as to who
was destined to die, who to fall into the most cruel hands that ever
abused their power over a helpless foe (for the French of former wars
were not forgotten), and what was to be the lot of those who escaped
death and capture--but for these speculations, which were stirring in
every woman's heart in all that household, the way of life at Le Zephyr
was pleasant enough.

Even poor Genifrede appeared to revive here.  She showed more interest
in nursing Dessalines than in any previous occupation since the death of
her lover.  Therese was delighted to afford her the opportunity of
feeling herself useful, and permitted herself many a walk in the groves,
many an hour of relaxation in the salon, which she would have despised,
but for their affording an interest to Genifrede.  The three were more
than ever drawn together by their new experience of the conduct of the
French.  Never was sick man more impatient to be strong than Dessalines.
Genifrede regarded him as the pillar of the cause, on account of his
uncompromising passion for vengeance; and his wife herself counted the
days till he could be again abroad at the head of his forces.

When not in attendance upon him, Genifrede spent the hours of daylight
at the station on the height.  She cared neither for heat nor chill
while there, and forgot food and rest; and there was sometimes that in
her countenance when she returned, and in the tone of her prophesying
about the destruction of the enemy, which caused the whisper to go round
that she met her lover there, just under the clouds.  Monsieur Pascal--
the rational, sagacious Monsieur Pascal--was of opinion that she
believed this herself.

On this station, and other heights which surrounded the mansion, there
were other objects of interest than the visitations of the clouds, and
the whisperings of the breezes from the depths of the woods.  For many
days, a constant excitement was caused by the accession of troops.  Not
only Toussaint's own bands followed him to the post, but three thousand
more, on whom he could rely, were spared from his other strong posts in
the mountains.  Soon after these three thousand, Christophe appeared
with such force as could be spared from the garrisons in the north.  The
officers under Dessalines also, aware that the main struggle, whenever
the French would come to an engagement, must be in the Plateaux de la
Ravine, drew thither, with the remnants of the force which had suffered
defeat in the south-west.  Hither, too, came Bellair, with his family,
and the little garrison which had fortified and held L'Etoile, till it
became necessary to burn and leave it.

Messenger arrived after messenger, to announce these accessions of
force; and the whole household poured out upon the heights to see and
hear.  If it was at noon, the clear music of the wind-instruments
floated faintly in the still air; if the morning or evening breezes were
abroad the harmony came in gushes; and the shouts of greeting and
reception were plainly distinguishable, and were responded to
involuntarily by all at Le Zephyr but the two prisoners.  Under the
impulse of the moment, no voice was louder or more joyous than
Vincent's.  It now only remained for Maurepas to bring his numerous
troops up to the point of junction.  He must presently arrive; and then,
as Placide and other sanguine young soldiers thought, and as Sabes and
his companion began seriously to fear, the negro force under L'Ouverture
might defy all Europe.

News, stirring news, came from all corners of the colony with every
fresh arrival.  Deesha, especially, could tell all that had been done,
not only at L'Etoile, and in all the plain of Cul-de-Sac, but within the
districts of the unfaithful generals, Clerveaux and La Plume.  Her boy
Juste, though too young to take a practical part in the war, carried the
passion and energy of a man into the cause, and was versed in all the
details of the events which had taken place since the landing of the
French.  It was a sore mortification to Juste that he was not permitted
to remain by his father's side at the Plateaux; but he consoled himself
with teaching his little brother Tobie the military exercise, and with
sport.  Juste was as fond of sport as on the day when he floated under
calabashes, to catch wild ducks; and this was well; for at Le Zephyr,
under present circumstances, the sportsman was one of the most useful
members of the establishment.  The air of the mornes was celebrated for
its power of creating an appetite; and there were many mouths to feed:
so that Juste was assured, on all hands, that he had as important a
function to fulfil as if he had been a soldier.  As it was believed
impossible for human foot to stray beyond the morne by any other passage
than that of the Plateaux, the boys were permitted to be out early and
late, in the woods and upon the hill-sides; and often did Genifrede and
the sentries hear the far-off shouts of the little sportsmen, or see the
puff of smoke from Juste's rifle in the valley, or under the verge of
the groves.  Many a nest of young orioles did Tobie abstract from the
last fork of a branch, when the peculiar note of the parent-bird led him
on into the midst of the thicket where these delicate creatures hide
themselves.  The ring-tail dove, one of the most exquisite of table
luxuries, he was very successful in liming; and he would bring home a
dozen in a morning.  He could catch turkeys with a noose, and young pigs
to barbecue.  He filled baskets with plover's eggs from the high lands;
and of the wild-fowl he brought in, there was no end.  In the midst of
these feats, he engaged for far greater things in a little while--when
the soldier-crabs should make their annual march down the mountains, on
their way to the sea.  In those days, Tobie promised the tables at Le
Zephyr should groan under the profusion of savoury soups, which should
banish for the season the salt beef and salt-fish which, meantime,
formed part of the daily diet of the household.

While his little brother was thus busy with smaller game, Juste was
indulging a higher ambition.  When nothing better was to be had, he
could condescend to plovers and pigeons; but he liked better to bring
down a dainty young heifer among the herds of wild cattle, or several
head of deer in a day.  It was his triumph to return heavily laden, and
to go forth again with three or four soldiers, or half-a-dozen servants
(whichever could best be spared), to gather up from the hill-sides the
fallen game, which he had covered with branches of trees, to keep off
hawk and vulture.  It was triumph to point out to his aides spot after
spot where the bird of prey hovered, seeking in vain for a space on
which to pounce.  Amidst these triumphs, Juste was almost satisfied not
to be at the Plateau.

Perhaps the heaviest heart among all that household, scarcely excepting
Genifrede's, was Madame L'Ouverture's; and yet her chief companionship,
strangely enough, was with the one who carried the lightest--Euphrosyne.
It was not exactly settled whether Madame L'Ouverture or Madame Pascal
was hostess; and they therefore divided the onerous duties of the
office; and Euphrosyne was their handmaid, charmed to be with those she
loved best--charmed to be busy in new ways--charmed to hear, from time
to time, that she was useful.  She useful to the Ouvertures!  It was an
honour--it was an exquisite pleasure.  She was perhaps the first white
lady in the island, out of the convent, who had gathered fruits,
prepared vegetables, and made sweet dishes with her own hands.  Morning
after morning the three ladies spent together in domestic occupations,
finding that the servants, numerous as they were, could not get through
the whole work of hospitality to such a household.  Morning after
morning they spent in the shaded store-room, amidst the fragrance of
fruits and spices.  Here the unhappy mother, the anxious wife, opened
her heart to the young people; and they consoled and ministered to her
as daughters.

"If you are not my daughters," said she, on one of these mornings, "I
have none."

"But you will have: they will return to you," said Afra.  "Think of them
as you did of your sons, when they were at Paris--as absent for a while
to gain experience, and sure to return.  You will find one of them,
perhaps both, as happy on your bosom hereafter as we see your Placide by
his father's side."

"How can you say so, Afra?  Which of my girls will ever come to me
again, as they did at Breda?"

"Genifrede is better," said Euphrosyne; "better since we came here--
better every day: and I should wonder if she were not.  No one can long
be sullen here."

"Do not be hard, Euphrosyne, my love--`Sullen' is a hard word for my
poor, unhappy child."

"Nay, madam; no one can be more sorry for her than I am; as you will
find, if you ask Father Gabriel.  He will tell you how angry I was with
L'Ouverture, how cruel I thought him on that dreadful day.  But now, in
these stirring times, when our whole world, our little world in the
middle of the sea, is to be destroyed, or made free and glorious for
ever, I do think it is being sullen to mope on the mountain as she does,
and speak to nobody, care for nobody, but the Dessalines.  However, I
would not say a word about it, if I were not sure that she is getting
better.  And if she were growing worse, instead of better, there is
nothing that I would not do to help or console her, though I must still
think her sullen--not only towards her father here, but--"

And Euphrosyne crossed herself.

"It is hard," sighed Madame L'Ouverture; "it is hard to do all one
ought, even in the serious hours of one's prayers.  I do try, with my
husband's help, when he is here, and from the thought of him when he is
absent, to pray, as he desires, for our enemies.  But it generally ends
(God forgive me!) in my praying that Bonaparte may be held back from the
work of estranging our children from us."

"It can only be for a time," said Afra, again.  She could think of no
other consolation.

"Those who know best say that everything is for good," continued Margot.
"If so, I wonder whether anyone can foretell what can be the good of a
stranger, a man that we have never seen, and who has everything about
him to make him great, thrusting himself between us and our children, to
take their hearts from us.  I asked L'Ouverture to foretell to me how
this would be explained; and he put his hand upon my month, and asked me
to kneel down, and pray with him that we might have patience to wait
God's own time."

"And could you do so?" asked Euphrosyne, with brimming eyes.

"I did: but I added a prayer that Bonaparte might be moved to leave us
the glory and dominion which we value--the duty and the hearts of our
children--and that he might be contented with gaining the homage of the
French nation, and grasping the kingdoms of Europe."

"I think God will hear that prayer," said Afra, cheerfully.

"And I am sure Bonaparte will thank you for it," said Euphrosyne, "in
that day when hearts will be known, and things seen as they are."

"One might expect," sighed Madame L'Ouverture, "as one's children grow
up, that they should go mad for love; but I never thought of such a
thing as their going mad for loyalty."

"Do you think it is for loyalty?" asked Euphrosyne.  "I should call
Placide the most loyal of your children; and, next to him, Denis."

"They think they are loyal and patriotic, my dear.  I am sure I hope
they will go on to think so; for it is the best excuse for them."

"I wish I had a magic glass," said Euphrosyne--

"My dear, do not wish any such thing.  It is very dangerous and wicked
to have anything to do with that kind of people.  I could tell you such
a story of poor Moyse (and of many other unhappy persons, too) as would
show you the mischief of meddling with charms, Euphrosyne."

"Do not be afraid, dear madam.  I was not thinking of any witchcraft;
but only wishing your children the bright mirror of a clear and settled
mind.  I think such a mirror would show them that what they take for
loyalty and patriotism in their own feelings and conduct, is no more
loyalty and patriotism than the dancing lights in our rice-grounds are
stars."

"What is it, my dear, do you think?"

"I think it is weakness, remaining from their former condition.  When
people are reared in humiliation, there will be weakness left behind.
Loyal minds must call Bonaparte's conduct to L'Ouverture vulgar.  Those
who admire it, it seems to me, either have been, or are ready to be,
slaves."

"One may pity rather than blame the first," said Afra; "but I do not
pretend to have any patience with the last.  I pity our poor faithless
generals here, and dear Aimee, with her mind so perplexed, and her
struggling heart; but I have no toleration for Leclerc and Rochambeau,
and the whole train of Bonaparte's worshippers in France."

"They are not like your husband, indeed, Afra."

"And they might all have been as right as he.  They might all have known
as well as he, what L'Ouverture is, and what he has done.  Why do they
not know that he might long ago have been a king?  Why do they not tell
one another that his throne might, at this day, have been visited by
ambassadors from all the nations, but for his loyalty to France?  Why do
they not see, as my husband does, that it is for want of personal
ambition that L'Ouverture is now an outlaw in the mornes, instead of
being hand-in-hand, as a brother king, with George of England?  They
might have known whom to honour and whom to restrain, as my husband
does, if they had had his clearness of soul, and his love of freedom."

"And because they have not," said Euphrosyne, "they are lost in
amazement at his devotion to a negro outlaw.  Do not shrink, dear madam,
from those words.  If they were meant in anything but honour they would
not be spoken before you.  Afra and I feel that to be the First of the
Blacks is now to be the greatest man in the world; and that to be an
outlaw in the mornes, in the cause of a redeemed race, is a higher glory
than to be the conqueror of Europe.  Do we not, Afra?"

"Assuredly we do."

"They will soon learn whom they have to deal with in this outlaw," said
Madame.  "I can tell you, my dears, that Rochambeau is drawing near us,
and that there is likely soon to be a battle.  Heigho!"

"Is that bad news or good?" asked Euphrosyne.

"My husband means it for good news, my dear--at least, if Maurepas
arrives from the south as soon as Rochambeau from the north."

"I wish Maurepas would come!" sighed Afra.  Madame L'Ouverture went on--

"It has been a great mortification to my husband that there has been no
fair battle yet.  His people--those who are faithful--have had no
opportunity of showing how they feel, and what they can do.  The French
have been busy spying, and bribing, and cajoling, and pretending to
negotiate; and the one thing they will not do is fighting.  But I tell
you, my dears, the battle-day is coming on now.  Heigho!"

There was a pause; after which Euphrosyne said--

"I suppose we shall hear the battle."

There was another pause, during which Madame's tears were dropping into
her lap.  Afra wondered how General Dessalines would bear to hear the
firing from his chamber, so near, and be unable to help.

"That puts me in mind," said Madame, rising hurriedly--"how could I
forget?  It was the very reason why my husband told me that Rochambeau
was so near.  We must prepare for the wounded, my dears.  They will be
sent up here--as many as the house will hold, and the tents which my
husband is sending up.  We must be making lint, my dears, and preparing
bandages.  My husband has provided simples, and Madame Dessalines will
tell us--Oh dear! what was I about to forget all this!"

"Do not hurry yourself, dear madam," said Afra.  "We will take care that
everything is done.  With Madame Dessalines to direct us, we shall be
quite prepared.  Do not hurry yourself so, I dare say Rochambeau is not
at hand at this moment."

At the very next moment, however, Euphrosyne's countenance showed that
she was by no means certain of this.  Madame L'Ouverture stood still to
listen, in her agitated walk about the room.  There were distant shouts
heard, and a bustle and buzz of voices, within and about the house,
which made Euphrosyne empty her lap of the shaddocks she was peeling,
and run out for news.

"Joy!  Joy!" she cried, returning.  "Maurepas is coming.  We can see his
march from the station.  His army has crossed the river.  Make haste,
Afra.  Dear madam, will you go with me to the station?"

"No, my love," said Madame, sitting down, trembling.

"We can go as slowly as you like.  There is plenty of time.  You need
not hurry; and it will be a glorious sight."

"No, my dear.  Do you young people go.  But, Euphrosyne, are you quite
sure it is not Rochambeau?"

"Oh, dear, yes! quite certain.  They come from the south, and have
crossed the Artibonite; they come from the very point they ought to come
from.  It is good news, you may rely upon it; the best possible news."

"I am thankful," said Madame, in a low, sad voice.  "Go, my dears.  Go,
and see what you can."

All who could leave the house, or the post of duty--that is, all but the
two prisoners, the sentries, and Madame--were at the station, or on
their way to it.  The first notice had been given, it appeared, by some
huntsmen who had brought in game.

"My boys!" said Madame Bellair, "what a pity they should miss this
sight! only that, I suppose, we could not keep Juste within bounds.  He
would be off to the camp before we could stop him.  It may be a
fortunate chance that he is on the northern hills instead of the
southern, to-day; but I am sorry for my little Tobie.  Whereabouts are
they, I wonder.  Has any one seen them within these two hours?"

The hunters had parted with the boys in the valley, at sunrise, when
they said they should seek fish and fowl to-day, in the logwood grove
and the pond above it, as there were hunters enough out upon the hills.

"If they are really no farther off than that," said their mother, "they
may hear us, and come for their share of the sight.  You walk well,
General Dessalines."

Dessalines declared himself well.  The rumour of war was the tonic he
needed.  Even at this distance, it had done more for him than all
Therese's medicines in a month.  Therese saw that it was indeed so; and
that he would lie at the Plateaux now before the enemy.

"Look at General Vincent," whispered Madame Pascal to her husband, on
whose arm she was leaning, as all stood on the height, anxiously gazing
at the road, which wound like a yellow thread across the plain, and
round the base of the hills.  The troops were now hidden by a hanging
wood; so that Afra rested her strained eyes for a moment, and happened
to notice Vincent's countenance.  "Look, do look, at General Vincent!"

Her husband shook his head, and said that was what he was then thinking
of.  Dessalines and his wife were similarly occupied; and they and the
Pascals communicated with each other by glances.

"What is the matter, Vincent," asked Dessalines, outright.  "Here are
the long-expected come at last; and you look as gloomily upon them as if
they were all France."

"I am not such a man of blood as you, Dessalines.  I have never given up
the hope of accommodation and peace.  It is strange, when the great men
on both sides profess such a desire for peace, that we must see this
breach made, nobody can tell why."

"Why, my good fellow!" exclaimed Dessalines, staring into his face,
"surely you are talking in your sleep!  The heats put you to sleep last
summer, and you are not awake yet.  You know nothing that has been done
since December, I do believe.  Come! let me tell you, as little Tobie is
not here to do it."

"Don't, love," said Therese, pressing her husband's arm.  "No disputes
to-day, Jacques!  The times are too serious."

"At another time, General," said Vincent, "I will instruct you a little
in my opinions, formed when my eyes were wide open in France; which
yours have never been."

"There they are!  There they come from behind the wood, if we could but
see them for the dust!" exclaimed some.

"Oh, this dust! we can see nothing!" cried others.  "Who can give a
guess how many they are?"

"It is impossible," said Bellair.  "Without previous knowledge, one
could not tell them from droves of bullocks and goats going to market at
Saint Marc."

"Except for their caps," said Euphrosyne.  "I see a dozen or two of
feathers through the crowd.  Do not you, Afra?"

"Yes, but where is their music?  We should hear something of it here,
surely."

"Yes, it is a dumb march," said Dessalines, "at present.  They will
strike up when they have turned the shoulder of that hill, no doubt.
There! now listen!"

All listened, so that the brook, half a mile behind, made its babbling
heard, but there was not a breath of music.

"Is it possible that Rochambeau should be in the way," asked Therese.

"He cannot be in the way," said her husband, "for where I stand, I
command every foot of the road, up to our posts; but he may be nearer
than we thought.  I conclude that he is."

"Look!  See!" cried several.  "They are taking another road.  Where are
they going!  General Dessalines, what does it mean?"

"I would thank anyone to tell me that it is not as I fear," replied
Dessalines.  "I fear Maurepas is effecting a junction, not with us, but
with some one else."

"With Rochambeau!"

"Traitor!"

"The traitor Maurepas!"

"His head!"

"Our all for his head!" cried the enraged gazers, as they saw Maurepas
indeed diverging from the road to the post, and a large body of French
troops turning a reach of the same road, from behind a hill.  The two
clouds of dust met.  And now there was no more silence, but sound enough
from below and afar.  There was evidently clamour and rage among the
troops in the Plateaux; and bursts of music from the army of their foes,
triumphant and insulting, swelled the breeze.

"Our all for the head of Maurepas!" cried the group again.

"Nay," said Vincent, "leave Maurepas his head.  Who knows but that peace
may come out of it?  If all had done as he has now done, there could be
no war."

"In the same way," exclaimed Pascal, "as if all of your colour thought
as you do, there would then be no war, because there would be no men to
fight; but only slaves to walk quietly under the yoke."

"Be as angry as you will," said Vincent, in a low voice to Pascal.  "No
one's anger can alter the truth.  It is impious and vain, here as
elsewhere, to oppose Bonaparte.  L'Ouverture will have to yield; you
know that as well as I do, Monsieur Pascal; and those are the best
friends of the blacks who help to render war impossible, and who bring
the affair to a close while the First Consul may yet be placable."

"Has that opinion of yours been offered to your Commander, Vincent?"

"It would have been, if he had asked for it.  He probably knows that I
had rather have seen him high in honour and function under Leclerc, than
an outlaw, entrenched in the mornes."

"Then why are you here?"

"I am here to protect those who cannot protect themselves, in these
rough times.  I am here to guard these ladies against all foes, come
they whence they may,--from France, or out of our own savannahs,--from
earth, air, or sea.--But hark!  Silence, ladies!  Silence all, for a
moment!"

They listened, ready to take alarm from him, they knew not why.  Nothing
was heard but the distant baying of hounds,--the hunters coming home as
it was supposed.

"Those are not Saint Domingo hounds," said Vincent, in a low voice to
Dessalines.

"No, indeed!--Home, all of you!  Run for your lives!  No questions, but
run!  Therese, leave me!  I command you.--If this is your doing,
Vincent--"

"Upon my soul, it is not.  I know nothing about it.--Home, ladies, as
fast as possible!"

"My children!" exclaimed Madame Bellair.  "I can find them, if you will
only tell me the danger,--what is the danger?"

"You hear those hounds.  They are Cuba bloodhounds," said Dessalines.
"The fear is that they are leading an enemy over the hills."

Not a word more was necessary.  Every one fled who could, except
Therese, who would not go faster than her husband's strength permitted
him to proceed.  The voice of the hounds, and the tramp of horses' feet
were apparently so near, before they could reach the first sentry, that
both were glad to see Pascal hurrying towards them, with two soldiers,
who carried Dessalines to the house, while Pascal and Therese ran for
their lives,--she striving to thank her companion for remembering to
bring this aid.

"No thanks!" said Pascal.  "General Dessalines is our great man now.  We
cannot do without him.  Here is to be a siege,--a French troop has come
over by some unsuspected pass;--I do not understand it."

"Have you sent to the Plateaux?"

"Of course, instantly; but our messengers will probably be intercepted,
though we have spared three men, to try three different paths.  If
L'Ouverture learns our condition, it will be by the firing."

Some of the sportsmen had brought in from the hills the news of the
presence of an enemy in the morne--not, apparently, on their way to the
plantation, but engaged in some search among the hills.  Others spoke
tidings which would not have been told for hours but for the
determination of Madame Bellair to set out in search of her children,
whatever foe might be in the path.  It became necessary to relate that
it was too late to save her children.  They had been seen lying in a
track of the wood, torn in pieces by the bloodhounds, whose cry was
heard now close at hand.  Though there was no one who would at first
undertake to tell the mother this, there were none who, in the end,
could conceal it from her.  They need not have feared that their work of
defence would be impeded by her waitings and tears.  There was not a
cry; there was not a tear.  Those who dared to look in her face saw that
the fires of vengeance were consuming all that was womanish in Deesha's
nature.  She was the soldier to whom, under Dessalines, the successful
defence of Le Zephyr was mainly owing.  Dessalines gave the orders, and
superintended the arrangements, which she, with a frantic courage,
executed.  From that hour to the day when she and her husband expired in
tortures, the forces of the First Consul had no more vindictive and
mischievous enemy than the wife of Charles Bellair.  Never propitiated,
and long unsubdued, Charles Bellair and his wife lived henceforth in the
fastnesses of the interior; and never for a day desisted from harassing
the foe, and laying low every Frenchman on whom a sleepless, and
apparently ubiquitous vengeance, could fix its grasp.

Deesha was not the only woman who seemed to bear a foeman's soul.
Therese looked as few had seen her look before; and, busy as was her
husband with his arrangements for the defence of the house, he could not
but smile in the face which expressed so much.  To her, and any
companions she could find among the women, was confided the charge of
Sabes and Martin, who, locked into a room whence they must hear the
firing of their comrades outside, could not be supposed likely to make a
desperate attempt to escape.  Therese answered for their detention, if
she had arms for herself and two companions.  Whoever these heroines
might be, the prisoners were found safe, after the French had decamped.

There were doubts which, at any other time, would have needed
deliberation.  It was a doubt, for a moment, whether to imprison
Vincent, whose good faith was now extremely questionable: but there was
no one to guard him; and his surprise and concern were evidently so
real, and his activity was so great in preparing for defence, that there
seemed nothing for it but trusting him to protect the women who were
under his charge.  Dessalines, however, kept his eye upon him, and his
piece in readiness to shoot him down, on the first evidence of
treachery.

Another doubt was as to the foe they had to contend against.  How they
got into the morne, and why such an approach was made to an object so
important as securing a party of hostages like these; whether, if
Vincent had nothing to do with it, the spies had; and whether,
therefore, more attacks might not be looked for, were questions which
passed through many minds, but to which no consideration could now be
given.  Here were the foe; and they must be kept off.

The struggle was short and sharp.  Small as was the force without, it
far outnumbered that of the fighting men in what had been supposed the
secure retreat of Le Zephyr; and there is no saying but that the ladies
might have found themselves at length on Tortuga, and in the presence of
Bonaparte's sister, if the firing had not reached the watchful ear of
L'Ouverture at the Plateaux, on the way to which all the three
messengers had been captured.  Toussaint arrived with a troop, in time
to deliver his household.  After his first onset, the enemy retreated;
at first carrying away some prisoners, but dropping them on their road,
one after another, as they were more and more hardly pressed by
L'Ouverture, till the few survivors were glad to escape as they could,
by the way they came.

Toussaint returned, his soldiers bringing in the mangled bodies of the
two boys.  When he inquired what loss had been sustained, he found that
three, besides the children, were killed; and that Vincent was the only
prisoner, besides the three messengers turned back in the morne.

"Never was there a more willing prisoner, in my opinion," observed
Pascal.

"He carries away a mark from us, thank Heaven!" said Dessalines.
"Madame Bellair shot him."

It was so.  Deesha saw Vincent join the French, and go off with them, on
the arrival of L'Ouverture; and, partly through revenge, but not without
a thought of the disclosures it was in his power to make, she strove to
silence him for ever.  She only reached a limb, however, and sent him
away, as Dessalines said, bearing a mark from Le Zephyr.

One of the French troop, made prisoner, was as communicative as could
have been desired--as much so as Vincent would probably be on the other
side.  He declared that the attack on Le Zephyr was a mere accident:
that his company had entered the morne, led by the bloodhounds in
pursuit of some negroes, from whom they wanted certain information for
Rochambeau, respecting the localities; that they had thus become
acquainted with the almost impracticable pass by which they had entered;
that, when the hounds had destroyed the children, and proved that there
were inhabitants in the morne, the situation of Le Zephyr had been
discovered, and afterwards the rank of its inhabitants; that the
temptation of carrying off these hostages to Rochambeau had been too
strong to be resisted; and hence the attack.

"We shall have to remove," the ladies said to each other, "now that our
retreat is known."

"Shall we have to remove?" asked Euphrosyne, whose love of the place
could not be quenched, even by the blood upon its threshold.  "I am not
afraid to stay, if any one else will."

"How can you be so rash, Euphrosyne?" asked Afra.

"I would not be rash, Euphrosyne replied; but we know now how these
people came into the morne, and L'Ouverture will guard the pass.  And
remember, Afra, we have beaten them; and they will take care how they
attack us another time.  Remember, we have beaten them."

"We have beaten them," said Dessalines, laughing.  "And what did you do
to beat off the French, my little lady?"

"I watched the prisoners through the keyhole; and if they had made the
least attempt to set the house on fire--"

"You would have put it out with your tears--hey, Mademoiselle
Euphrosyne?"

"Ask Madame, your lady, what she would have done in such a case: she
stood beside me.  But does L'Ouverture say we must remove?"

"L'Ouverture thinks," said Toussaint, who heard her question, "that this
is still the safest place for the brave women who keep up his heart by
their cheerful faces.  He is ashamed that they have been negligently
guarded.  It shall not happen again."

He was just departing for the Plateaux.  As he went out he said to his
wife, while he cast a look of tender compassion upon Madame Bellair--

"I shall tell Charles that you will cherish Deesha.  It is well that we
can let her remain here, beside the graves of her children.  Bury them
with honour, Margot."



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

AUGUST FAR-OFF.

In time of peace, and if her children had perished by any other mode, it
might have been a consolation to Deesha to dwell for a time beside their
graves.  As it was, the deep bark of the murderous dogs filled her ear
perpetually, and their fangs seemed to tear her heart.  Her misery in
the quiet mansion of the mornes was unendurable; and the very day after
the funeral she departed, with her husband, to a place where no woman's
eye could mark her maternal anguish--where no semblance of a home kept
alive the sense of desolation.  She retired, with her husband and his
troop, to a fastness higher up in the Morne-du-Chaos, whence they kept
watch over the regular entrenchments below, cut off supplies of
provisions from the French, harassed all their marches, and waged a
special war against the bloodhounds--the negro's most dreaded foe.
More, however, were perpetually brought over from Cuba, and regularly
trained, by means too barbarous for detail, to make negroes their prey.
From the hour when Deesha first heard the cry of a bloodhound, more than
the barbarism of her native Congo took possession of her.  Never more
was she seen sowing under the shade of the tamarind-tree.  Never more
did she spread the table, for husband or guests, within a house.  Never
more was her voice heard singing, gaily or plaintively, the songs that
she had gathered from the palm groves of Africa, or the vineyards of
France, or from the flowery fields of a mother's hopes.  Henceforth she
carried the rifle, and ate her meal in stern silence, in the cave of the
rock.  When she laughed, it was as her shot went straight to her
victim's heart.  When she spoke, it was of the manoeuvres of her
mountain war; and the only time that she was ever seen to shed tears was
when a rumour of a truce reached the pinnacle on which she dwelt.
Though assured that any truce could be only, as every negro knew, a
truce till August, the mere semblance of accommodation with the foe
forced tears of vexation from eyes which were for ever after dry.  If
she felt a gleam of satisfaction before leaving Le Zephyr, it was at the
singular accident by which Juste, always so bent upon being a soldier,
shared the honours of a military funeral.  Juste and Tobie were buried
with the soldiers who had fallen in the defence of the house; and to the
father, who followed the coffins, and the mother, who hid herself in the
thicket, there was something like pleasure in the roll of the drum, and
the measure of the dead march, and the warlike tone of the shrill dirge
which was sung round the open graves, and the discharge of firearms over
them--a satisfaction like that of fulfilling the last wish of their boy.
This done, and the graves fenced and planted, the childless pair
departed, wishing, perhaps, in their own hearts, that they could weep
their misfortune like those whom they left behind.

For some time forward from that day there was no more cause for weeping
at Le Zephyr.  The season had come for the blacks to show what they
could do.  In the hope, as he said, of hastening on the peace, Vincent
told all that he knew of the plans and resources of the outlawed chiefs;
and, in consequence, the French at length proceeded to vigorous action,
believing that if they could force the post at the Plateaux, they could
so impoverish and disable the negro leaders as to compel them to become
mere banditti, who might be kept in check by guarding the
mountain-passes.  The French force was, therefore, brought up again and
again to the attack, and always in vain.  The ill success of the
invaders was, no doubt, partly owing to the distress which overtook
their soldiery whenever they had been a few days absent from their camp
and their ships.  Whichever way they turned, and however sudden the
changes of their march, they found the country laid waste--the houses
unroofed, the cattle driven away, the fields burned or inundated, and
nothing but a desert under their feet, and flames on the horizon, while
the sun of the tropic grew daily hotter overhead.  These were
disadvantages; but the French had greatly the superiority in numbers, in
experience, and in supplies of ammunition.  Yet, for many weeks, they
failed in all their attempts.  They left their dead before the entrance
of the Plateaux, or heaped up in the neighbouring fields, or strewed
along the mountain-paths, now to the number of seven hundred, now
twelve, and now fifteen hundred; while the negroes numbered their losses
by tens or scores.  The first combined attack, when Maurepas, with his
army, joined Rochambeau, and two other divisions met them from different
points, was decisively disastrous; and even Vincent began to doubt
whether the day of peace, the day of chastisement of L'Ouverture's
romance, was so near as he had supposed.

The last time that the French dared the blacks to come forth from their
entrenchments, and fight on the plain afforded the most triumphant
result to the negroes.  So tremendous was the havoc among the French--
while the blacks charged without intermission, rolling on their force
from their entrenchments, each advancing line throwing itself upon the
ground immediately after the charge, while those behind passed over
their bodies, enabling them to rise and retreat in order to rush forward
again in their turn--that the troops of the Rhine and the Alps were
seized with a panic, and spread a rumour that there was sorcery among
the blacks, by which they were made invulnerable.  It was scarcely
possible, too, to believe in the inferiority of their numbers, so
interminable seemed the succession of foes that presented a fresh front.
Rochambeau saw that, if not ordered to retreat, his troops would fly;
and whether it was a retreat or a flight at last, nobody could
afterwards determine.  They left fifteen hundred dead on the field, and
made no pause till they reached Plaisance.

From this time, the French generals resolved against more fighting, till
reinforcements arrived from France.  New hopes inspired the blacks--all
of them, at least, who did not, like L'Ouverture and Christophe,
anticipate another inundation of the foe from the sea.  Placide, who was
foremost in every fight, was confident that the struggle was nearly
over, and rode up to Le Zephyr occasionally with tidings which spread
hope and joy among the household, and not only made his mother proud,
but lightened her heart.

He told, at length, that the French, not relishing the offensive war
begun by Christophe, had blockaded his father in the Plateaux.  He
treated this blockade as a mere farce--as a mode of warfare which would
damage the French irreparably as the heats came on, while it could not
injure the blacks, acquainted as they were with the passes of the
country.

Placide would have been right, if only one single circumstance had been
otherwise than as it was.  L'Ouverture had nothing to fear from a
blockade in regard to provisions.  He had adherents above, among the
heights, who could supply his forces with food for themselves and fodder
for their horses inexhaustibly.  Every ravine in their rear yielded
water.  They had arms enough; and in their climate, and with the summer
coming on, the clothing of the troops was a matter of small concern.
But their ammunition was running short.  Everything was endeavoured, and
timely, to remedy this; but there was no effectual remedy.  Many a
perilous march over the heights, and descent upon the shore, did one and
another troop attempt--many a seizure of French supplies did they
actually effect--many a trip did Paul, and others who had boats, make to
one and another place, where it was hoped that powder and ball might be
obtained; but no sufficient supply could be got.  The foe were not slow
in discovering this, and in deriving courage from their discovery.  From
the moment that they found themselves assailed with flights of arrows
from the heights, and that their men were wounded, not always with ball,
or even shot, but with buttons, nails, and other bits of old metal--with
anything rather than lead--they kept a closer watch along the coast and
the roads, that no little boat, no cart or pack-horse, might escape
capture.  Towards the end of April the difficulty became so pressing,
that L'Ouverture found himself compelled to give up his plan of
defensive war, with all its advantages, and risk much to obtain the
indispensable means of carrying on the struggle.

It was with this view that he mustered his force, gave out nearly the
last remains of his ammunition, burst victoriously through the
blockading troops, routed them, and advanced to attack the French lines
posted at Plaisance.  Behind him he left few but his wounded, commanded
by Dessalines, who was yet hardly sufficiently recovered to undertake a
more arduous service.  Before him were the troops under Maurepas, whom
he had always believed he could recall with a word, if he could but meet
them face to face.  Others probably believed so too; for those troops
had, on every occasion, been kept back, and so surrounded, as that no
one from their old haunts and their old companions could reach them.
Now, however, the French force was so reduced by the many defeats they
had undergone, that it was probable they would be obliged to put faith
in the renegado division, if attacked; and L'Ouverture was not without
hopes of striking a decisive blow by recalling the negroes in the French
lines to their allegiance to himself.

Everything answered to his anticipations.  When he advanced to the
attack, he found the troops of Maurepas posted in the front, to weaken
the resolution of their former comrades, or receive their first fire.
His heart bounded at the sight; and all his resentment against them as
renegades melted into compassion for the weakness of those who had been
reared in terror and servility.  He rushed forward, placing himself,
without a thought of fear, between the two armies, and extended his arms
towards the black lines of the enemy, shouting to them--

"My soldiers, will you kill your general?  Will you kill your father,
your comrades, your brothers?"

In an instant every black was on his knees.  It was a critical moment
for the French.  They rushed on, drowning the single voice on which
their destruction seemed to hang, threw the kneeling soldiers on their
faces, strode over their prostrate bodies, and nearly effected their
object of closing round L'Ouverture, and capturing him.  His danger was
imminent.  The struggle was desperate;--but his soldiers saved him.  The
battle was fierce and long, but again and again turning in his favour,
till all seemed secure.  He was forcing the enemy from their lines, and
giving out the inspiring negro cry of victory, when a new force marched
up against him, stopped the retreat of the French, and finally repulsed
the blacks--exhausted as they were, and unable to cope with a fresh foe.
In the most critical moment, four thousand troops, fresh from the ships
had arrived to convert the defeat of the French into a victory; and they
brought into the battle more than their own strength in the news that
reinforcements from France were pouring in upon every point of the
coast.

The news reached L'Ouverture, and completed the discouragement of his
little army.  It decided him at once in what direction to retreat.  It
was useless to return to the Plateaux, as the force there was more than
proportioned to the supply of ammunition.  This fresh descent of the
French upon the coast would have the effect of dispersing the small
bodies of black troops in the north.  A rendezvous was necessary, in
order to make the most both of the men and stores.  He proceeded to post
his troops at Le Dondon, and Marmalade, sending orders to Christophe to
meet him there.  There they might possibly be usefully employed in
cutting off access to the French army at Plaisance, and at the same time
supplying their own wants, while deliberating on what plan to carry on
the struggle, under the new circumstances, till August; for, whatever
treachery and defection might have to be encountered elsewhere, there
was never a moment's doubt that Nature would prove a faithful ally, when
her appointed season came.



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

CONFLICTING.

"What to do!" said L'Ouverture to Christophe, as they entered his
apartment at Le Dondon.  "What to do?  Everything, this year and for the
future, may depend on what we decide on for our next step.  And we must
decide before we leave this room, say your thoughts, Henri."

"I am for a truce."

"I am for a retreat in the mountains.  Now for our reasons!  Why do you
desire a truce?"

"Because I see that Leclerc so earnestly wishes it, that I am confident
we may make good terms, for the interval of waiting till we recover
altogether our power, our territory, and our people.  Leclerc will
revoke our outlawry.  That done, you will be the virtual rider of our
people till August; after which no foes will be left upon our soil.
What have you to say against this?"

"That it is yielding, unnecessarily and fatally, to the invaders.  Where
are our censures of Clerveaux and Maurepas, if we, too, yield to
Leclerc, and make terms with him?"

"Every one of our people will understand the difference in the cases.
Every one of them sees the difference between falling at the feet of
Leclerc, like Clerveaux; or joining him on the very field on which you
were about to oppose him, like Maurepas; and making a truce, for a short
interval, when you are almost destitute of ammunition, and the enemy so
exhausted with the heats as to decline coming into the field; while, at
the same time, fresh troops are pouring in upon the coast, in such
numbers as to prevent your regaining your independence by remaining in
arms.  If every man of the negroes has not wit enough to understand this
for himself, who is better able than you to inform them of whatsoever
you desire them to know?  Be assured, Toussaint, powerful as your
influence is this day among our people, it will be more so when you are
no longer an outlaw.  It is worth a large sacrifice of our feelings to
have our outlawry revoked."

"Have you more reasons to give for accepting a truce; or, as the French
understand it, a peace?"

"Let me first hear your reasons for a retreat in the mountains."

"A retreat in the mountains is the more honest proceeding of the two,
Henri.  If we make terms with the French, it will be knowing that that
which goes by the name of peace is no more than a truce till August."

"And will not they know that as well as we?  Is it necessary to tell the
whites, at this day, that they are liable to the fever in the heats, and
that any army, however glorious in its strength previously, becomes a
skeleton at that season?  This is a matter that is perfectly understood
by all the parties."

"We must look forward, Henri, to the days to come, when August itself is
past.  The influence of myself or my successor will be injured by my
having, even apparently, yielded to the invaders.  My power over our
people's minds will be immeasurably greater, if I shall have
consistently refused to tolerate the foe, from the moment of their first
hostile act to the end of the struggle.  Am I not right?"

"That character of consistency will be purchased at a price too dear;--
at the cost of your characteristic of mercy, Toussaint--of reverence for
human life.  You will be ranked with Dessalines, if you keep up, for
four months, the disturbance and devastation of war, when every one
knows that your end will be as certainly gained after these four months
have been spent in peace.  What a grief it would be to see you changed
in all eyes from the adored L'Ouverture to Toussaint the bandit!  Pardon
my freedom."

"I required it of you, my friend; so do not speak of pardon.  We are
agreed that the moral influence of my conduct is the main consideration,
as the destruction of the French army is certain, sooner or later--our
independence secure, if we so will it.  If we remain in the mountains,
cutting off in detail the grasp which France shall attempt to lay on any
part of our territory or our system; training our people, meantime, for
another campaign, if France should attempt another; replenishing
gradually our stores with perpetual small captures from the enemy,
allowing them no asylum, discountenancing their presence, in every
possible way--we shall be taking the shortest, and therefore the most
merciful method of convincing the French and the blacks at once that
their empire here is at an end, and slavery henceforth impossible for
the negroes of Saint Domingo.  But, if I make a peace or truce, how dim
and perplexed will be the impression of my conduct!  I cannot hold
office, civil or military, under the French.  Henri, you would not have
me do so!"

"Certainly not.  Till August, retire to your estate, that every office
in the colony may thereafter be in your hand."

"If I co-operate with the French, even in the faintest appearance, my
moral influence will be all on their side, and a second year of warfare
will find us farther from peace or independence than the first.  If I
act, more or less, for the blacks, Leclerc will send me to France as a
traitor.  If I do nothing, neither party will believe in my doing
nothing: each will suspect me of secret dealings with the other.  It is
also true that I cannot, if I would, be inoperative.  Every glance of my
eye, every word of my lips, in my own piazza at Pongaudin, would be made
to bear its interpretation, and go to disturb the single and distinct
image which I now stand before every eye and in every mind."

"I do not agree with you," said Henri.  "While the image of August is
distinct in the minds of the Saint Domingo people, it will keep your
influence single and intelligible to them.  As for what the French
think, that is their own affair.  They have the means of knowledge.  Let
them use them.  There is one fact which no one can misunderstand, the
while--that after the defections under which you have suffered, and
under your known want of military stores, an incursive war from the
mountains appears ferocious--both revengeful and cruel--when every one
knows that time will render it unnecessary."

"These defections do not discourage me as they do you, Henri.  Full one
third of my forces are faithful--are proved so by trial.  These, with
the goodness of our cause, are enough for my hopes--almost for my
desires.  There is no ferocity, but rather mercy, in hastening on the
day of our independence and peace, by using a force so respectable--so
honoured, as this tried remnant of my army."

"You reckon fallaciously, Toussaint.  You include my troops in the force
you speak of."

"Henri!" exclaimed L'Ouverture, stopping in his walk up the apartment;
"it cannot be that you will desert me.  No, no! forgive me that the
words passed my lips!"

"Never will I desert you or our cause, Toussaint.  Never will I intermit
my enmity to our invaders; never will I live for any other object than
the liberties of our people.  But the time may be come for us to pursue
our common object by different paths.  I cannot go and play the bandit
in the mountains."

"Why did you not call me a bandit when I was at the Plateaux?"

"Because you were then waging an honourable war.  War, not peace, was
then beckoning you on to freedom.  A state of voluntary outlawry, a
practice of needless ravage, will make a different man of you.  Say no
more of it, Toussaint: I cannot be lieutenant to--Do not make me utter
the word."

"You have always hitherto obeyed me, Henri."

"I have; and when _we_ are in a state of war, I will obey you again.  Do
not class me with La Plume and Clerveaux--or, rather, do, if you will,
and when August is past I will prove to you the difference."

"Do not you see, Henri, that you not only cease to aid me at a great
crisis but that you put a force upon me?"

"I cannot help it; I must do so, rather than go and be a butcher in the
mornes with Dessalines."

"Say with me, too: call me a butcher, too!  After the long years that
you have known my heart, call me a butcher too."

"Let us talk sense, Toussaint: this is no time for trifling.  After
August, I shall join you again--to fight, if it be necessary: but I hope
it will not."

"Not if heaven strengthens me to do my work without you, Christophe.
After the fever, it is much for the sick to walk: we do not expect the
dead to rise."

"When I join you, after August," resumed Christophe, "whether for the
labours of war or peace, you, and perhaps even Jacques, will wish that
your hands were as clean from blood as mine.  Your thought, Toussaint!--
tell me your thought.  If--"

"I was thinking that you _will_ join us, Henri.  You _will_ labour till
our great work is done.  You may err; and you may injure our cause by
your error; but you will never be seduced from the rectitude of your own
intentions.  That is what I was thinking.  I would fain keep my judgment
of you undisturbed by a grieving heart."

"You are more than generous, Toussaint: you are just.  I was neither.
Pardon me.  But I am unhappy--I am wretched that you are about to
forfeit your greatness, when--Oh, Toussaint! nothing should ever grieve
me again, if we could but agree to-day--if I could but see you retire,
with your wonted magnanimity, to Pongaudin, there, with your wonted
piety, to await the leadings from above.  Where is your wonted faith,
that you do not see them now, through the clouds that are about us?"

"I cannot but see them now," said Toussaint, sighing; "and to see is to
follow.  If you are wholly resolved to make a truce for yourself and
your division--"

"I am wholly resolved to do so."

"Then you compel me to do the same.  Without you, I have not force
sufficient to maintain an effectual resistance."

"Thank God! then we shall see you again L'Ouverture, and no longer
Toussaint, the outlaw.  You will--"

"Hear me, Henri!  You put this constraint upon me.  What are you
prepared to do, if the French prove treacherous, after our peace is
made?"

"To drive them into the sea, to be sure.  You do not suppose I shall
regard them as friends the more for making a truce with them!  We will
keep our eyes upon them.  We will preserve an understanding with the
whole island, as to the vigilance which the blacks must exercise, day
and night, over their invaders.  The first treacherous thought in
Leclerc's mind is a breach of the truce; and dearly shall he rue it."

"This is all well-planned, Henri.  If the cunning of Leclerc proves
deeper than yours--"

"Say ours, Toussaint."

"No.  I have no part in this arrangement.  I act under your compulsion,
and under my own protest; as I require of you, Henri, to remember.  If
we are not deep enough, vigilant enough, active enough, for Leclerc and
his council--if he injures us before August, and Bonaparte ordains a
second campaign after it, are you ready to endure the responsibility of
whatever may befall?"

"I am."

"Have you looked well forward into the future, and detected every
mischief that may arise from our present temporising, and resolved that
it was a less evil than losing the rest of this season, putting a
compulsion upon your best friend, and fettering the deliverer of your
people?"

"I have so looked forward--repudiating the charge of undutiful
compulsion.  I act for myself, and those under my command."

"Virtually compelling me to act with you, by reducing me from being the
General of an army to be the leader of a troop; and by exposing our
cause to the peril--the greatest of all--of a declared division between
you and me.  I yield, Christophe; but what I am going to do, I do under
protest.  Order in the French prisoners."

"Yet one moment," said Henri.  "Let me reason with you a little further.
Be satisfied of the goodness of the act before you do it."

"I do not need satisfaction on that.  I do not quarrel with the terms we
are to make.  I do not protest against any of the provisions of the
treaty.  I protest against the necessity of treating.  Summon the
prisoners."

"Can you," said Christophe, still delaying, "can you improve upon the
terms proposed?  Can the conditions be altered, so as to give more
satisfaction to your superior foresight?  I would not use flattering
terms at this moment, Toussaint; you know I would not.  But your
sagacity is greater than mine, or any one's.  I distrust myself about
the terms of the treaty, I assure you."

"About anything more than the mere terms of the treaty?" asked
Toussaint, again stopping in his walk.

"About the conditions--and about the conditions only."

"Your self-distrust is misplaced, and comes too late.  Order the
prisoners to be brought in."

As Sabes and Martin entered, L'Ouverture and Christophe renewed, by a
glance, their agreement to speak and act with the utmost apparent
sameness of views and intentions.  It was but a poor substitute for the
real coincidence which had always hitherto existed; but it was all that
was now possible.

"I am going to send you back to your Captain-General, gentlemen," said
Toussaint.

"Not without apology, I trust," said Sabes, "for having subjected to
such treatment as we have undergone, messengers sent to parley--bearing
actually the necessary credentials from the Captain-General.  For nine
weeks have my companion and I been dragged from place to place, wherever
it suited your purposes to go, in perpetual fear for our lives."

"I am sorry you have trembled for your lives, gentlemen," replied
Toussaint.  "It was an unnecessary suffering, as I gave you my word, on
your capture, that your persons were safe.  Considering that you were
found crouching among the ferns, within hearing of my private
conversation with my son respecting the affairs of the war, I think your
complaints of your detention unreasonable; and I have no apology to
make, on that ground, either to yourselves or your commander.  I cannot
hear another word of complaint, gentlemen.  You know well that by any
general in Europe you would, under similar circumstances, have been
hanged as spies.  Now to public business.  I am about to send you to
General Leclerc, with proposals from General Christophe and myself to
bring this painful war to an end, according to the desire of the heads
of both armies.  We all know such to be the wish of the
Captain-General."

"No doubt.  It was never his desire, nor that of any true Frenchman,"
said Sabes, "to be at war on the soil of this colony.  You alone,
General Toussaint, are responsible for the loss of lives, and all the
other miseries which it has occasioned."

"How so?  Let him say on, Lieutenant Martin.  No one suffers by speaking
his thoughts to me, be they what they may.  On what consideration is it
possible to impute this war to me?"

"It would never have broken out if you had not despised the authority,
and thrown off the control, of the mother-country.  This view cannot be
new to you, General Toussaint," continued Sabes, on seeing the look of
amazement with which L'Ouverture turned to Christophe.

"Indeed it is," replied Toussaint.  "The charge is as unexpected as it
is untrue.  You, sir," he said, appealing to Lieutenant Martin, "are a
naval officer.  Tell me how you would act in such a case as this.
Suppose you commanded a vessel of the state, authorised and approved in
your office? suppose another officer came--without notice, without your
having heard a word of complaint--and leaped upon your deck, with a crew
double the number of your own, striking down and fettering your men.  If
you resisted their violence in such a case, successfully or
unsuccessfully, would you admit that you were the cause of the
struggle--that you despised the government under which you held your
command--that you threw off the control of your superiors?"

There was a pause.

"Such is my case," said Toussaint; "and thus you must represent it, if
you be men of honour.  The purport of my letter to the Captain-General
(which will be ready by the time you are prepared for your journey), is
to declare the willingness of General Christophe and myself to
negotiate, as the continuation of the war, under the circumstances which
have arisen, appears to be without object.  The terms which we require,
and which it is supposed General Leclerc will agree to, are an amnesty
for all who have ever fought, or otherwise acted, under our command; and
the preservation of the rank of all black officers, civil and military.
My friend Christophe and I will retire to our estates, to pray for the
peace and welfare of the colony--the peace and welfare which have,
notwithstanding our prayers, been so unhappily broken up.  Gentlemen,
there can be little doubt that the Captain-General will agree to these
terms of pacification."

"We cannot answer for his replies," said Martin.  "Our representations
shall be faithful."

"I doubt it not," said Toussaint, "after experiencing your companion's
courage and fidelity in rebuke; for which, though he is mistaken in
fact, I honour him.  Nor can I doubt the readiness of the
Captain-General to treat with us on the terms I shall propose; for he
must know that I shall always, among my native fastnesses, be strong to
burn, ravage, and destroy.  He must know, that though my negroes may be
conquered, they will never more be subdued; and that, entrenched in the
mornes, they can always effectually prevent an unfriendly settlement of
the island.  He must know that I am open to generous treatment; but
otherwise ready and able to sell dearly a life which has done our
country some service."

The French officers assented; but waited, as if to hear something more,
besides Christophe's declaration, for his own part, of agreement in what
L'Ouverture had said.

Sabes at length spoke, not without another cautionary sign from his
companion.

"Your generous frankness, General Toussaint," said he, "induces me to
remind you of one more duty which, in case of the desired pacification,
you will owe to the Captain-General.  You will hold yourself indebted to
France for all such treasure as, in an hour of alarm, you may have
chosen to conceal."

"What does this mean?" said Toussaint.  "General Christophe, do you know
of any public treasure being concealed in any part of the island?"

"None," said Christophe, "public or private."

"Nor do I.  You hear, gentlemen."

"You forget, General Toussaint, what we heard on the occasion of our
capture."

"You forget your own words to us," said Lieutenant Martin--"that we had
seen and heard too much for you to let us go."

"I remember my words perfectly; and that they referred to my choice of a
post in the mornes, and a retreat for my family--affairs long since made
public enough.  What else do you suppose you saw and heard?  If I spoke
of depositing my treasures in the mornes, I was doubtless speaking of my
household.  Did you understand me to mean gold and silver?  What was it
that you suppose you saw and heard?"

"We saw new-made graves, and the tools that dug them, after having heard
shots."

"You are welcome to dig upon the Plateaux, and to take whatever treasure
you may find.  You will find only the bones of the brave who fell in
attacking and defending the post."

"And of those who, being there, can tell no tales.  You forget that we
heard their death-shots before we saw their graves.  The time is come
for you to tell the secret that you buried with them."

Christophe rarely laughed; but he laughed now.

"They believe," said he--"apparently they believe--that you hid treasure
in the morne, and then shot and buried the servants employed."

"We do," said the officers, gravely.

"Were you really about to carry this story to the Captain-general?"
asked Toussaint, smiling.  "Tell him that the wealth of the colony,
sufficient for the desires of its inhabitants, is dispersed through all
its dwellings, to be enjoyed--not hidden by avarice, and sealed with
blood."

"We are too well informed," said Sabes, "concerning the wealth and
splendour of the colony to believe that any part of its treasure has met
our eyes that can be concealed.  Duty to France now requires that she
should be put in possession of the whole wealth of the island."

"Let France cultivate an honourable peace," said Toussaint, "and her
authorities will assuredly see the wealth of the colony spread over all
its fields, and amassed in every harbour.  We can then present an
overflowing public treasury.  That is all I have to offer: and it ought
to be enough."

Sabes did not press the point further, because he saw it would be
useless.  But he and his companion were more and more persuaded of the
truth of their notion of what they had seen and heard, the more they
recalled the tales told at the Court of France of the plate, the gems,
the bullion and coin, and the personal ornaments which abounded, even in
the prosperous days of the old emigrants.  Every one knew, too, that the
colony had been more prosperous than ever since.  It is not known by
whom the amount of the hidden treasure was, at length, fixed at
thirty-two millions of francs.  Sabes and Martin simply told their story
and their ideas to Leclerc, adding the information that Toussaint
L'Ouverture was an adept in dissimulation; that they had as nearly as
possible been deprived of this piece of insight, by the apparent
frankness and candour of his manners; and that, but for the boldness of
Sabes in pressing the affair of the buried treasure, they should
actually have quitted the negro chief, after an occasional intercourse
of nine weeks, without any knowledge of that power of dissimulation
which had been formerly attributed to him by those who, it now appeared,
knew him well, and which must be the guiding fact in all the
Captain-General's dealings with him.  His cunning must be met by all the
cunning that Leclerc's united council could muster, or destruction would
lurk under the pretended pacification.  Accordingly, the whole of
Leclerc's policy henceforth proceeded on the supposed fact of Toussaint
L'Ouverture being the prince of dissemblers.



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

RECEDING.

Leclerc was eager to receive proposals of peace,--to owe a respite to
dissimulation itself, rather than continue the war, under his present
difficulties.  It was weary work, keeping up a show before the eyes of
the blacks, when, of the twelve thousand soldiers whom he had brought
with him, five thousand had fallen in battle, and five thousand more
were in the hospitals.  Twenty thousand had arrived within a few weeks,
from France; and, of these, scarcely eleven thousand remained fit for
service.  Happy indeed was Leclerc to receive replies to his overtures
of peace; and anxious was he to testify every respect to the generals
whom he had lately insulted and defied.  He revoked their outlawry,
commending them to the esteem and good offices of those to whom he had
desired to deliver them as traitors.  It is true, he transmitted to
France magnificent accounts of the surrender of the blacks, of their
abject supplications for their lives, and of the skill and prowess by
which he had subdued the rebels, and restored the colony to France.  But
these boastings were not known in Saint Domingo; though the true state
of the case was whispered in Paris, as regarded the mortality among the
white troops, and the formidable influence still retained by the negro
leaders.

Leclerc invited Toussaint to visit him at Cap; as well aware, doubtless,
as Toussaint himself, that this open indication of amity was necessary
to protect the army from the ill-will of the blacks, who would not
believe, on any other authority than L'Ouverture's own, that he had made
peace with the invaders.

It was a mournful, though showy demonstration, and all parties were glad
when it was over.  As L'Ouverture rode from Le Dondon to Cap Francais,
followed by a guard of three hundred and fifty horse, he was greeted by
the inhabitants with the profoundest respect.  Only in by-places, or
from the depths of some wood, did a few voices sing, in negro language,
the new song which was spreading over the island in praise of August,--
exhorting to patience and peace till August.  As he entered the town of
Cap, the thunder of artillery reverberated from the heights around.
Every fort along the coast, every vessel in the roads, fired its salute;
and the inhabitants of every colour issued from their houses, to pay
honour to their adored L'Ouverture.

Leclerc stood ready to receive him, and to administer to him the oath of
allegiance in the hall of Government-House, the doors of which stood
wide, and were carefully kept so by Toussaint's own guard, who would
not, for a moment, let their commander be hidden from their sight.  They
formed in the Walk, and in the court of Government-House, remaining in
fighting order, with drawn sabres, during the whole of the interview
between the late and the present Commander-in-chief.

With an unaltered countenance, Toussaint took once more the oath of
allegiance to France;--the oath which it had never been his desire to
break.  He smiled when he heard this simple act proclaimed by another
roar of artillery, such as might have greeted a victory.  Leclerc
frowned; for it was not followed, as he had hoped, by acclamations.  The
echoes died away into deep silence.

It was an awkward moment.  Leclerc hoped that Toussaint would lead the
conversation.  But Toussaint was deep in thought.  Gazing on the anxious
and sickly face of the Captain-General, he was grieving at heart that
he, and so many thousands more who might have lived long and useful
lives at home, should be laid low, in the course of a bad enterprise
against the liberties of the natives.  The mournful gaze of his mild
eyes confused the Captain-General, so that he said the first thing that
occurred, in order to break the silence.  He observed that he understood
there was some business yet standing over for settlement between the
parties who had so happily met at last.  He had no doubt that General
Toussaint would see clearly that in his allegiance to France was
involved the duty of accounting to the government for the wealth of the
island, whether open to estimate or concealed in the mornes, or
elsewhere.

"I have heard something of this before," said Toussaint, "and are as
ignorant as yourself of any buried treasure.  In this island, Nature is
so perpetually bountiful, that we have not the temptation which we are
told exists elsewhere, to amass wealth against a time of dearth.  I have
no treasure."

"If so, how could you have proposed to remain out of the bounds of the
law, as you did till lately?  Nature is not bountiful on the
mountain-peaks, which must then have been your abode.  At least, Nature
does not there bring forth arms and ammunition.  Without treasure, with
which to purchase supplies, how would you have obtained arms and
ammunition?"

"I should have taken yours."

Leclerc saw that even his own followers were more disposed to applaud
than resent these words; and he, therefore, changed the topic.

"It is fortunate, then, for all parties," said he, "that future
struggles are avoided.  We are friends.  Let it go abroad through the
whole island that we are friends."

Toussaint made no reply.  Leclerc continued--

"You, General, and your troops, will be employed and treated like the
rest of my army.  With regard to yourself, you desire repose."--Looking
round, he repeated the words emphatically.  "You desire repose: and you
deserve it.  After a man has sustained for several years the government
of Saint Domingo, I apprehend he needs repose.  I leave you at liberty
to retire to which of your estates you please.  I rely so much on the
attachment you bear the colony of Saint Domingo, as to believe you will
employ what moments of leisure you may have during your retreat, in
communicating to me your ideas respecting the means proper to be taken
to cause agriculture and commerce again to flourish.  Respecting your
forces, and those of General Christophe, I hold full information.  As
soon as a list and statement of the troops under General Dessalines are
transmitted to me, I will communicate my instructions as to the
positions they are to take."

"I will send a messenger from my guard to General Dessalines, this day,"
said Toussaint.  "I shall be passing near his post, on my way to my
house at Pongaudin; and he shall have your message."

"This day?" said Leclerc, in a tone of some constraint.  "Will you not
spend this day with us?"

"I cannot," replied Toussaint.  "I must be gone to my home."

As soon as it was believed that he was fairly out of hearing, the acts
of the morning were proclaimed throughout Cap Francais as the pardon of
Generals Toussaint and Christophe.  This proclamation was afterwards
published, by Leclerc's orders, in the _Gazette du Cap_, where it was
read by Toussaint in his study at Pongaudin.

"See!" said he, pointing out the paragraph to Pascal, with a smile.
"This is the way of men with each other.  See the complacency with which
one man pardons another for the most necessary, or the best deed of his
life!"

During a halt on the road to Pongaudin, Isaac and Aimee appeared.  Aimee
was tearful, but her face was happy.  So were her words.

"Oh, father!" she said, "who could have hoped, after what has happened,
that all would so soon be well!"

"I am rejoiced to see you happy, my children."

"And you, father, you are happy?  Honoured as you are--the colony at
peace--all parties friends--no more divisions--no more struggles in
families!  Father, answer me.  Is it not all well?"

"No, my child."

"Are you unhappy, father?"

"Yes, my child."

"I am quite disappointed, quite grieved," said Aimee, drawing back from
his arms, to look in his face.

"Vincent gave us a glorious account on Tortuga," said Isaac, "of the
welcome you had at Cap.  We thought--"

"I did not see Vincent at Cap."

"He was not there; but he knew all--"

"But, father," said Aimee, "you will see General Vincent.  You will see
him at Pongaudin.  Now that you have done as he did--now that you are
friends with the French, as he is, you will see him, father?"

"I have never done as Vincent did, Aimee; and my friendship with the
French is what it ever was.  If Vincent comes as your husband, I will
see him as such.  As a friend, I cannot.  Is he your husband, my love?"

"No!"

"He is to be your husband?"

"If you would see him.  If he were your friend.  He urges me, father;
and Madame Leclerc and Isaac urge me; but I cannot marry him yet.
Father, you do not know how much my heart is with you and my mother."

"Are you happy, Aimee?"

"Madame Leclerc is very kind; and Vincent's love is everything that
ought to make me happy, but--"

"Will you go home with me, my child?"

"How glad I should be, if only you loved Vincent!"

"I cannot, Aimee.  Would that I could!"

"Then, when I have married him, you will see him as my husband?  I
cannot marry till my heart is more at ease--till I see everybody as
friendly as Vincent said they were.  But when we are married we will
come to Pongaudin.  May we?"

"Come, my dear, when you will.  Your parents' home and hearts will
always be open to you.  Meantime, write often to us, Aimee."

"Oh, yes!  I will.  I will write very often; and you will answer.  I
have heard perpetually of my mother, and of poor Genifrede.  But where
is Placide?  I thought we should have met him.  Was not he at Cap?"

"At Cap!  No, indeed!  He was too heart-broken to be at Cap to-day."

"I wish I could understand it all!" said Aimee, sadly.  "I am sure there
are many things that I do not know or comprehend.  I thought all had
been right now; and yet you and Placide are unhappy.  I cannot
understand it all."

"Time will explain, my child.  There will come a day when all doubts
will be cleared up, and all woes at an end--when the wicked will cease
from troubling, love, and the weary be at rest."

"Must you be going, father, already?  Oh!  I wish--"

And she looked at Isaac, as if purposing to go to Pongaudin.  Isaac,
had, however, promised Madame Leclerc to return by an appointed hour.
There could be no difficulty, he said, in going to Pongaudin any day:
but to-day he had promised that they would both return to Madame
Leclerc.  Aimee, therefore, bade her father farewell for the present--
only for a very little while.  He must tell her mother that they should
certainly meet very soon.

In the piazza, at Pongaudin, Toussaint found Christophe.

"I wish," said Christophe, "you would send to Dessalines not only the
Captain-General's message, but your own request that he will yield."

"I cannot, Henri."

"But he may spoil all by holding out."

"I have done what I can in yielding myself.  I can do no more."

"You approve our act?  Surely you do not repent of what you have done?"

"I cannot repent of what I could not avoid.  But enough of business for
to-day, my friend.  Where is Madame Christophe?  Where are your
children?  Bring them here; and let us enjoy leisure and friendship once
more, while we can."

"We will.  But, Toussaint, if you could only say that you are satisfied
that we have done what is best, it would relieve me much."

"I cannot, Henri.  But, be assured, I fully acquiesce.  One has not
always the comfort of being able to acquiesce."

"Can you say, then, that you forgive me, in as far as you think me
wrong?"

"Can you doubt it?" replied Toussaint, turning upon him a countenance
full of frank affection.  "Are you not a friend of many years?"

"God forgive me if I have misled you, Toussaint!"



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

SUSPENSE.

Nature wrought with the blacks this season for the fulfilment of their
hopes, and the defence of their precarious liberties.  Never, within the
remembrance of the young people at Pongaudin, had the heat set in so
early, and the month of May been so sickly in the towns.  To the eyes of
such as Genifrede, who were ever on the watch for signs, it might almost
seem that they saw Pestilence floating, on her poison-dropping wings,
beneath the clouds which sailed from all quarters of the sky to the
mountain-peaks; clouds muttering in thunder, and startling the intruders
with terrific lightnings, from night-to-night.  The reports of fever
having broken out here and there among the invaders became more and more
frequent.  At first, those who were watching the times the most intently
concluded that, early as the season was, "the wish" must be "father to
the thought," and believed little of what they heard.  But before
Toussaint had been ten days at Pongaudin, it was certain that disease
was raging to such an extent among the French troops at Cap, that the
Captain-General had retired to Tortuga, to join his lady, and others of
the expedition who were the most carefully guarded.  The garrison at
Saint Marc was thinning, Therese sent word; and the country people
conveyed to Pongaudin the news that funerals were becoming daily more
frequent at Limbe, Le Dauphin, and other posts along the northern shore.

Not for this, however, was there any relaxation of the vigilance with
which L'Ouverture was watched by the foe.  His mode of life was simple,
and open to the observation of any who chose to look on.  He improved
his gardens; he read much; he interested himself in Denis's studies; he
rode out daily, and conversed everywhere with the people by the wayside.
He wrote many letters, sometimes with his own hand, and sometimes
employing that of his friend, Monsieur Pascal, who, with his wife,
resided with the Ouvertures.  Toussaint also received many letters, and
a perpetual succession of visitors--of applicants about matters of
business, as it seemed.  The only mystery was, how all his despatches
were sent to their destination.  This was a mystery which grew out of
the French practice of intercepting his correspondence.  Accidents had
happened to so many of his letters during the first week, that he
presently learned the necessity of some plan for securing the privacy of
his correspondence: and some plan he did devise, which quite succeeded;
as appeared from the French General having recourse to a new mode of
surveillance--that of setting spies on the person and movements of the
black chief.

Toussaint's family were alarmed at finding his steps tracked, and his
repose watched.  They heard incessantly of his path being crossed in his
rides; and they knew that many of the trifling messages which were
brought, at all hours of the day and night, to be delivered into
L'Ouverture's own ear, were mere devices to learn whether he was at
home.  They saw that their grounds were never private; and felt that
eyes watched them from the outer darkness when their saloon was lighted
for their evening employments and amusements.  Toussaint smiled at the
alarms of his family, admitting the fact of this incessant _espionnage_,
but asking what harm it did, and pointing out that it was only an
inconvenience of a few weeks' duration.  He would not hear of any
strengthening of his guard.  To increase his guard would be to encourage
and authorise the suspicions which he was now daily weakening.  He had
nothing to conceal; and the sooner the invaders satisfied themselves of
this, the better for all parties.

In answer to Madame L'Ouverture's frequent speculations as to what
Leclerc could fix his suspicions on, Toussaint said he was probably
supposed to be in communication with Dessalines.  He thought so from his
never approaching the mornes, in his rides, without finding French
soldiers overlooking his proceedings from every point of the hills.  He
was not in communication with Dessalines.  He did not know, and he
wished not to know even where he was--whether with the Bellairs, or
training his soldiers elsewhere for further warfare.  Dessalines had
never submitted; and while this was the case, it was obviously prudent
for those who had made terms to know nothing of any plans of his to
which they might wish success.  Therese would not compromise the
Ouvertures by living with them, in the present state of affairs.  She
remained quietly on her husband's estate, near Saint Marc, only
corresponding frequently with her friends at Pongaudin, in letters which
all the world might see.

The chief subject of this correspondence was the fever-hospitals
preparing at Saint Marc, as at all the other towns on the coast, for the
reception of the sick whites.  Whatever might be Therese's feelings
towards the whites, her compassion towards sick persons of every colour
was stronger.  Her gentle nature asserted itself whenever weakness and
suffering appealed to it; and this season she began to inspire that
affection in her neighbours--to establish that character for devoted
charity, which afterwards made her the idol of the people.  If her
husband had been with her, he would probably have forbidden her to save
the lives of any of that race whom he desired to exterminate.  But
though she could perhaps have taken away life, with her own hand, on the
battlefield, with the cry of liberty in her ear, she could form no
compact with such an ally as pestilence.  In the season of truce and
retreat, in the absence of the sounds and sights of conflict, she became
all the woman--the gentle spirit--to whom the colony from this time
looked up, as sent to temper her husband's ferocity, and wisely to
direct his strengthening passions.  She who was so soon after "the Good
Empress," was now the Sister of Charity, actually forgetting former
wrongs in present compassion for the helpless; and ministering to the
sick without thought whether, on recovery, they would be friends or
foes.  It was matter of speculation to many besides the Ouvertures,
whether the invaders omitted the opportunity of making a hostage of her,
because their sick needed her services, or because they were grateful
for her offices, or because they knew Dessalines well enough to be aware
that, so far from such an act bringing him to submission, it would
exasperate his ferocity, and draw down new sufferings and danger upon
the discouraged whites.

One evening, the household of the Ouvertures were where it was now their
wont to be at sunset--under the trees, on a grassy slope of the gardens,
fronting the west.  There they usually sat at this hour, to see the sun
sink into the ocean; the darkness following almost as quickly as if that
great fire were indeed quenched in the waters.  On this occasion, the
sun was still half-an-hour above the horizon, when Madame Dessalines
appeared, in her riding-dress, and, as she said, in haste.  She spoke
apart with Madame L'Ouverture and Toussaint; and presently called
Genifrede to the conference.

Therese had of late wanted help at Saint Marc--help in directing the
nursing of the sick.  Now she must have it.  Monsieur Papalier was ill--
very ill.  The people of the house where he lived insisted upon sending
him into the hospital this very night, if good attendance were not
provided for him; and now--

Therese did not yet seem quite clear why this event had determined the
moment of her application for Genifrede's assistance.  She was agitated.
She could only say that Genifrede had nursed Dessalines well; and she
must have her help again now.

"You will go, Genifrede," said her father; "that Madame Dessalines may
be at liberty to nurse Monsieur Papalier herself."

"No, no," said Therese, trembling.  Genifrede also said "No."

"You would not have me nurse _him_?" said Therese.  "Any one else!  Ask
me to save Rochambeau.  Send me to Tortuga, to raise Leclerc from the
brink of the grave; but do not expect me to be _his_ nurse again."

"I do hope it from you.  I expect it of you, when you have considered
the tenfold mercy of nursing _him_ with your own hands.  Think of the
opportunity you will give him of retrieving wrongs, if he lives, and of
easing his soul, if he dies.  How many of us would desire, above all
things, to have those whom we have injured beside our dying pillow, to
make friends of them at last?  Let Monsieur Papalier die grateful to
you, if he must die; and give him a new heart towards you, if he
survives."

"It was not this that I intended," said Therese.  "Genifrede will do
everything, under my care.  You shall have my help, Genifrede."

"No," said Genifrede.  "Do not play the tempter with me.  Find some one
else.  You will have much to answer for, if you make me go."

"What temptation, Genifrede?" asked her mother.

"Do not press her," said Toussaint, who read his child's mind.  "You
shall not be urged, Genifrede."

"You do not know--I myself do not know," said Genifrede, hurriedly, to
Madame Dessalines, "what might happen--what I might be tempted to do.
You know--you have read what some nurses did in the plague at Milan--in
the plague in London--in the night--with wet cloths--"

"Do not speak of it.  Stay here, Genifrede.  I can do without you."

"If," continued Genifrede, "they could do that for money--if the tempter
moved their hands to that deed with whispers of money, with the sight of
mere rings and watches, what might not a wretched creature do, at such a
time, with revenge muttering for ever in her heart!  My ear is weary of
it here; and there--I cannot go."

"No, you cannot," said Therese.

"Christ strengthen you, my child," said Toussaint, "as Therese is
strengthening!  She can already serve those whom she and you once hated
alike: and she is about to save her foe of foes."

"No, you will not save Monsieur Papalier," said Genifrede.

"L'Ouverture is a prophet, as all men are in proportion as they are
Christians," said Therese.  "If he says I shall save my enemy, I believe
I shall."

"You will, at least, try.  If you are going, go;--the sun is setting,"
said Toussaint.  "What escort have you?"

"Old Dessalines and another, I want no more."

"Old Dessalines!" said Toussaint, smiling; "then he must have wine.  I
must see him."

"He is here," said Therese, calling him.

The old man was, indeed, lingering near, preferring the chance of a word
from L'Ouverture even to supper and wine within.  He was ready enough to
tell his story:--that he lived as butler at General Dessalines'; and,
that though master and servant had changed places, he liked the new
times better than the old.  He was treated with more respect now, by
everybody, than when he was a negro tradesman, even though he then had a
slave of his own.  The place of butler suited him too.  General
Dessalines and his lady drank only water; and they left him to manage
the wine-cellar just as he liked; except at the present time, when a
dreadful quantity of wine was wanted for the convalescents.  It
frightened him to think how soon the cellar might be emptied, if they
went on at this rate.  Old Dessalines was glad he had come to Pongaudin
to-day.  He had not only seen L'Ouverture, but had heard from
L'Ouverture's own lips that General Dessalines' cellars should never be
quite empty while there was wine at Pongaudin.

When Toussaint resumed his seat under the tree, where the Pascals,
Euphrosyne, Placide, and Denis remained (the rest having gone into the
house with Therese), he found Denis discussing with Monsieur Pascal the
principle and policy of nursing the sick who were hereafter to be mown
down on the battlefield.  Denis had been reminded that this was a time
of peace, and that he was not authorised to anticipate more
battlefields: and his reply had shown that he had no faith in this
peace, but looked forward, like others of his colour, to August and its
consequences.  He was not contradicted here; and he went on to ask
whether the Crusaders (his favourite warriors) nursed the wounded and
sick heathens whom they found on their road, and in the cities they
took.

"They were no Christians if they did not," said Euphrosyne.

"It was a savage age," observed Placide.

"Still they were the representatives of the Christianity of their day,"
said Afra; "and Christianity requires us to do good to those who use us
ill."

"The Crusaders," said Toussaint, "lived in the early days of that
Christianity which is to endure as long as the race of man.  Like
others, they did their part in acting out one of its principles.  That
one was not love of enemies,--which yet remains for us."

"I agree with you," said Pascal.  "There are many ways of warring for
the Cross.  Theirs was one; ours is another."

"You always speak as if you were a black, Monsieur Pascal," said Denis.

"I would fain be a negro in heart and temper, Denis, if what your father
thinks of the vocation of negroes be true."

"But about those ways of warring for the Cross!" inquired Afra.

"I mean, and L'Ouverture, I think, means," said Pascal, "that nothing
can immediately alter the nature of men; that the glorious Gospel itself
is made to change the face of the world gradually; all the more surely,
because slowly and naturally.  This seed of life was cast upon the flood
of human passions, and the harvest must not be looked for till after
many days.  Meantime it sprouts out, now here, now there, proving that
it is alive and growing; but the harvest is not yet."

"We find one trace of the Gospel here, and another there," said
Toussaint; "but a Christian nation, or race, or class of people, who has
seen?"

"Not in the earliest days?" asked Euphrosyne.  "Were not the first
confessors and martyrs a Christian class?"

"They were so according to their intention, to their own idea," said
Toussaint.  "They were votaries of the one Christian principle most
needed in their time.  The noble men, the courageous women, who stood,
calm and resolved, in the midst of the amphitheatre, with the heathen
altar behind them, the hungry tiger before them, and a careless or
scoffing multitude ranged all around--these were strong witnesses to the
great principle of Faith--noble proofs of the power of living and dying
for things unseen.  This was their function.  It was for others to show
forth the humility and modesty in which, as a class, they failed."

"The anchorites," said Pascal, "each in his cave, solitary, abstemious,
showed forth in its strength the principle of Devotion, leaving Charity
unthought of."

"And then the nun," said Toussaint--

"What possible grace of religion did the nun exhibit?" asked Euphrosyne.

"The original nun, Euphrosyne, was inspired with the reverence of
Purity.  In an age of licence, those who were devoted to spiritual
things were the salt of the earth.  But in their worship of purity they
outraged human love."

"The friar," said Pascal, "was a perpetual emblem of Unworldliness.  He
forced upon the admiration of a self-seeking world the peace of poverty,
the repose of soul which is troubled with no thought for the morrow.
But for other teachers, however, industry would have been despised--the
great law of toil would have remained unrecognised."

"The Crusaders worked hard enough," said Denis.  "Thousands and
thousands of them died of their toils, besides the slain."

"They were the apostles of Zeal," said Monsieur Pascal.  "For the honour
of the Gospel they suffered and died.  They overlooked all that it
teaches of toleration and universal love;--of peace on earth and
good-will to men."

"None of these Christians," said Afra, "appear to have had much concern
for men.  They seemed to have lived for God and the faith, without love
or care for those for whose sake God gave the faith."

"Just so," said her husband.  "That part of our religion had not yet
come into action.  The first step taken towards this action was one
which united with it the former devotion to God.  The organisation of
the great Church of Christ united, in the intentions of those who formed
it, care for the glory of God and the salvation of men.  It was a great
step."

"But still," said Euphrosyne, "there was not the Charity, the living for
the good of men, soul and body, which was what Christ taught and
practised."

"That, Euphrosyne, was a later fruit; but it is ripening now.  We have
more Sisters of Charity than contemplative nuns, at this time.  There
are hospitals in every Christian land for the sick and the aged.  It is
remembered now, too, that Christ had compassion on the blind, and the
deaf, and the insane: and charity to these is now the Christianity of a
multitude."

"And what is their defect?" asked Denis.  "What essential do they
overlook, as the anchorite and the crusader overlooked this same
charity?"

"It may be liberality--regard to the Christian liberty of others;--it
may be--"

"Let us not look too closely into their failures," said Toussaint.  "Let
us not judge our brethren.  These are too near our own time for us to be
just judges.  We see their charity--the brightest light yet in the
constellation of Christian principles; let us be thankful that our eyes
have seen it.  It is brightening too; so that day telleth to-day of its
increase, and night is witness of it unto night.  It is now not only the
sick and infirm in body that are cared for; but I am told there has been
a man in England who has taken such pity on those who are sick and
deformed in soul as to have explored the most loathsome of European
prisons in their behalf.  There has been a Briton who pitied the guilty
above all other sufferers, and devoted to them his time, his fortune,
his all.  He will have followers, till Christendom itself follows him;
and he will thus have carried forward the Gospel one step.  The charity
which grieves more for the deformity of the soul than the evils of the
body is so far higher a charity, that it may almost be called a new
principle."

"What remains?" asked Euphrosyne.

"Do you see anything further to be done, father?" inquired Denis.

With a mournful smile, Toussaint replied that mankind had advanced but a
little way yet.  The world was very far from being Christianised.

"In practice," said Euphrosyne.  "But, supposing us all to fulfil what
has been exemplified from the earliest days till now, do you suppose
that many principles remain to be acted upon?"

"No doubt.  If I saw none, I should believe, from all experience, that
revelations (or rather verifications of what Christ revealed) will
succeed each other as long as men exist.  But, from the beginning till
now, individuals here and there have lived by the principles which
classes and nations have overlooked.  By a solitary ray shining here and
there, we may foretell something of the new lights about to rise upon
the world.  There will be more privileged classes, Euphrosyne; and,
Denis, these privileges are lying within our grasp."

"A new charity, father?"

"A new charity, my boy.  To solace the sick and infirm is good.  To tend
the diseased soul is better.  But there is a higher charity still."

"To do good to those who hate us," said Monsieur Pascal; "in doing good,
to conquer not only our love of ease and our fear of pain, but our
prejudices, our just resentments, our remembrance of injuries, our
disgust at oppression, our contempt of pride--to forget or conquer all
these through the love of men as men, is, indeed, a higher charity than
any which classes have yet illustrated."

"The negroes are the race that will illustrate it," said Toussaint, with
calm confidence.  "The Gospel is for the whole world.  It sprang up
among the Jews; the white Gentiles hold it now; and the negroes are
destined to fulfil their share.  They are to illustrate its highest
Charity.  For tokens, mark their meek and kindly natures, the softness
and the constancy of their affections, and (whenever tried) their
placability.  Thus prepared, liberty is about to be opened to them in a
region of civilisation.  When God has given them the strength of the
free, it will exalt their meekness and their love into that highest
charity of which we have spoken.  I myself am old; and though I shall do
what I can on this side the grave, I cannot see the great day, except in
faith.  But my children may witness at least its dawn."

"In those days, wars will cease," said Euphrosyne, recalling the
thoughts she had revolved on the day of the death of Moyse: "there will
be no bloodshed, no violence--no punishment of injuries to others, while
your people forgive their own."

"So will it be, I trust," said Toussaint.

"Why not, then, begin now?  Why not act upon your whole principle at
once?"

"Because the nature of the negro has been maimed.  He has been made
selfish, cowardly, and indolent.  He must be educated back into a fair
condition; and this necessary education circumstances have imposed.  We
are compelled to the self-denial, toil, and danger of warfare, in order
to obtain the liberty which is to carry us forward.  I once hoped
otherwise, Euphrosyne; but I now see the bracing process of defensive
warfare to be inevitable, and, on the whole, good for my people.  Their
liberties, thus hardly won, will be prized, so as to shut out the future
danger of war.  If, however, one stroke is inflicted for other purposes
than defence--if one life is taken for vengeance, we shall be set back,
long and far, in our career.  It shall not be, under my rule.  Alas! for
those who succeed me, if they permit it!  It will not only make the
first black empire a by-word throughout the world, but it will render
the Christian civilisation of my people difficult and slow."

Toussaint spoke like a rider; and he was virtually still a sovereign, as
he had been for years past.  Nor were the tokens of sovereignty
altogether wanting.  At this moment, as was continually happening,
despatches arrived, on affairs of great importance, on which he must
think and act.

"See what these French commanders are doing," said he, handing his
letters to Monsieur Pascal, "at the very moment that they disclaim all
intention of enslaving the negroes!  What are they doing yonder but
recommencing slavery?  It must not be.  Are you disposed for business?"

"This moment," said Monsieur Pascal, springing up before he had finished
the letters.  "Will you provide a messenger?  Slavery is restored; and
there is not a moment to be lost."

As in old days, lights were ordered into the library; and the
royal-souled negro dictated his commands to his friendly secretary, who
smiled, at such an hour, at the thought of the exultation of the French
court over the "surrender" and "submission" of the blacks.



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

DEPARTURE WITHOUT RETINUE.

"Stand where you are, Therese; there, at the foot of the bed!  Stir not
an inch without my leave?  I have let you have your own way too much of
late.  I call for hours, and you never come.  I will not let you out of
my sight again?"

So said Monsieur Papalier in the delirium of his fever, as Madame
Dessalines was nursing him in his chamber at Saint Marc.  It was a sad
and dreary office; but she had motive to go through with it.  The more
he wandered back in his talk to the old days, the more strongly she felt
herself called upon to use the present generously.  The more imperious
the tone of command with which he addressed her, the more easily could
she pass over the error.  There was a degree of pleasure in giving
momentary case to him, while he could not recognise the hand that
bestowed it.  She dreaded, however, for the sake of both, an hour of
sanity.  If he slept for a short interval, she feared to hear him speak
coherently on his waking; and the more because little or no chance of
his recovery remained.  The thought of his carrying forward into the
hour of death the insolent temper of his life was terrible.  She almost
hoped that, if he were to die, it would be without having been aware
that he and his nurse were no longer master and slave.

She was his sole nurse.  There was no alternative between this and her
not being with him at all.  It was impossible to allow any servant, any
stranger, to hear his talk of old times--to witness the mode in which he
addressed her.  Except the physician, no one but herself entered his
chamber during his waking hours.

She now sat, as he desired, full in his view, at the foot of the bed,
encouraging repose by her stillness, and gladly turning from the ghastly
countenance of the dying man to the scene without--visible in all its
splendour, as the room had a north aspect, and the window stood wide, to
admit the breathing wind from the sea.  The deep blue sea, under the
heaven of a lighter blue, looked glorious from the shaded apartment.
The rustle of the trees in the courtyard, and the fall of water there,
spoke of coolness, and seemed to make themselves heard by the patient
even in the midst of the fever-flames by which he was consumed, for he
spoke of trees and fountains, and fancied himself at Arabie.  He asked
Therese to sing; and told her what to sing.  She did not wish to refuse;
she would have indulged him; but there was a choking in her throat which
forbade it.  Papalier was not long peremptory.  From commanding, his
voice sank to complaining; from complaining, to the muttering of
troubled slumber; and, at length, into the silence of sleep.

Therese sat still, as before, looking out upon the sea, till its
brightness, combined with the whispers of foliage and waters, made her
eyes heavy, and disposed her to sleep too.  Leaning back against the
bed-post, she was dreaming that she was awake, when she heard her name
so called that she awoke with a start.  Papalier was himself again, and
was demanding where he was, and what had been the matter.  He felt the
blister on his head; he complained of the soreness and stiffness of his
mouth and tongue; he tried to raise himself, and could not; and, on the
full discovery of his state, he wept like a child.

Gently, but not tenderly, did Therese endeavour to comfort him.  He had
irrecoverably forfeited her tenderness.  Gentle, however, she was, as
she told him that his state now, however painful, was better than an
hour ago, when he was unconscious of it.  Gentle was her hand, when she
wrapped fresh, cool leaves round his burning head.  Gentle was her
voice, when she persuaded him to drink.  Gentle was the expression of
her eye, when she fixed its gaze upon his face, and by its influence
caused him to check, like a child, the sobs that shook his frame.

"Therese," said he, "I am dying.  I feel that I am dying.  Oh! what must
I do?"

"We must wait upon God's pleasure.  Let us wait in quiet.  Is there
anything that can give you quiet of mind or body?"

Tears stole again from the heavy, closing eyes.

"We are all familiar with the end of our lives, almost from their
beginning," said Therese.  "There is nothing strange or surprising in
it.  The great thing is to throw off any burden--any anxiety--and then
to be still.  An easy mind is the great thing, whether recovery is at
hand, or--"

"Do not talk of recovery.  I shall not recover."

"Can I do anything--listen to anything--so as to give you case?  Shall I
call father Gabriel?  You may find comfort in speaking to him."

"I want to speak to you first.  I have not half done the business I came
for: I have not half secured my estates for my daughters."

"I believe you have.  I know that L'Ouverture fully intends--"

"What does it matter what L'Ouverture intends?  I mean no contempt to
him by saying so.  He intends very well, I dare say; but in the scramble
and confusion that are at hand, what chance will my poor orphan girls
have for their rights?"

"Fear nothing for them.  If there is to be a struggle, there is no doubt
whatever as to how it will end.  The French army will be expelled--"

"You do not say so!  You cannot think so!"

"I am certain of it.  But the white proprietors will be as safe in
person and property, as welcome to L'Ouverture, as during the years of
his full authority.  You were not here to see it; but the white
proprietors were very happy, perfectly satisfied, during those years (at
least, all of them who were reasonable men).  I can undertake for
L'Ouverture that your daughters' income from their estates shall be sent
to them at Paris, if you desire them to stay there; or the estates shall
be sold for their benefit; or, if you will trust them to my care--"

"No, no!  Impossible!"

"I am the wife of a general, and second to no woman in the island," said
Therese, calmly.  "I have power to protect your daughters; and, in an
hour like this, you cannot doubt my sincerity when I say that I have the
will."

"It cannot be, Therese.  I do not doubt you--neither your word nor your
will.  But it is impossible, utterly."

"Is there strength, even in the hour of death, to trample on the dark
race?  Oh! better far to trample on the prejudices of race!  Will you
not do this?"

"You talk absurdly, Therese.  Do not trouble me with nonsense now.  You
will undertake, you say, that Toussaint shall secure to my daughters the
estates I have left to them by will.  That is, in case of the blacks
getting the upper hand.  If they are put down, my will secures
everything.  Happily, my will is in safe hands.  Speak, Therese.  You
engage for what I have just said?"

"As far as warranted by my knowledge of L'Ouverture and his intentions,
I do.  If, through his death or adversity, this resource should fail,
your daughters shall not suffer while my husband and I have property."

"Your husband! property!  It is strange," muttered Papalier.  "I believe
you, however, I trust you, Therese; and I thank you, love."

Therese started at that old word--that old name.  Recovering herself,
she inquired--

"Have you more to ask of me?  Is there any other service I can render
you?"

"No, no.  You have done too much for me--too much, considering the new
order of affairs."

"I have something to ask of you.  I require an answer to one question."

"You require!"

"I do.  By the right of an outraged mother, I require to know who
destroyed my child."

"Say nothing of that, Therese.  You should know better than to bring
such subjects before a dying man."

"Such subjects lie before the dead.  Better to meet them prepared--
atoned for, in as far as atonement is yet possible.  For your own sake,
and by my own right, I require to be told who destroyed my child?"

"I did not, Therese."

"You did not!  Is it possible?  Yet in this hour you could not deceive
me.  I have accused you of the deed, from that hour to this.  Is it
possible that I have wronged you?"

"I do not say that I disapproved of it--that I did not allow it.  But I
did not do it."

"Then you know who did it?"

"Of course I do."

"Who was it?"

"I swore long ago that I would not tell; and I never will.  But you may
lay the blame on me, my dear; for, as I told you, I permitted the deed.
It was necessary.  Our lives depended on it."

"May you not find your eternal death depend on it!" said Therese,
agonised by suspicions as to whose hand it was by which her child had
died.  In a moment, she formed a resolve which she never broke--never
again to seek to know that which Papalier now refused to tell.  A glance
at the countenance before her filled her with remorse the next instant,
at what now seemed the cruel words she had just spoken.

"Let me bring Father Gabriel to you," said she.  "He will give you
whatever comfort God permits."

"Do not suppose I shall tell Father Gabriel what you want to discover,"
replied Papalier.  "He has no business with more than my share of the
affair: which is what you know already.  I am too weak to talk--to
Father Gabriel, or any one else."

"But you need comfort.  You will rest better afterwards."

"Well, well; in the evening, perhaps.  I must be quiet now.  Comfort,
indeed!" he muttered.  "Yes, I want comfort enough, in the horrid
condition I am in.  But there is no comfort till one lies dead.  I wish
I were dead."

He fell into a restless doze.  Moved by his misery and melted by the
thought that she had wronged him, all these years, by harbouring the
image of his hand on her infant's throat--distracted, too, by the new
doubts that had arisen--Therese prayed and wept, wept and prayed, on
behalf of Papalier and all sinners.  Again and again she implored that
these wretched hatreds, those miserable strifes, might be all hushed in
the grave,--might be wholly dissolved in death.

She was just stealing to the door, intending to send for Father Gabriel,
that he might be in readiness for the dying man's confession, when
Papalier started, cast his eyes round the room hurriedly, and
exclaimed--

"It is in vain to talk of attaching them.  If one's eye is off them for
one moment--Oh! _you_ are there, Therese!  I thought, after all I had
done for you--after all I had spent upon you--I thought you would not go
off with the rest.  Don't go--Therese--Therese!"

"I am here," said she, perceiving that he no longer saw.

"I knew you would stay," he said, very faintly.  "I cannot spare you, my
dear."

The last words he said were--

"I cannot spare you--remember--Therese!"

To the pang of the thought that he had died unconfessed succeeded the
question, more painful still--

"Could religious offices avail anything to a soul wholly unsanctified?
Is there a promise that any power can put such a spirit into immediate
congeniality with the temper of Heaven?  Among the many mansions, is
there one which would not be a prison to such?--to the proud one who
must there feel himself poor and miserable, and blind and naked?"



CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

JUNE.

Of the letters written by Toussaint and Pascal on the evening when news
arrived of the imposition of compulsory labour on the negroes, some
reached their destination; but one did not.  That one was to
L'Ouverture's aide, Fontaine, at Cap Francais.  It contained the
following:--

  "It is said that General Leclerc is in a bad state of health at
  Tortuga.  Of this you will inform me.  If you see the Captain-General,
  be sure to tell him that the cultivators are no longer disposed to
  obey me, for the planters wish to set them to work at Hericourt; which
  they certainly ought not to do.

  "I have to ask you whether any one near the person of the
  Captain-General can be gained to procure the release of D--, who would
  be very useful to me from his influence at La Nouvelle, and elsewhere.

  "Acquaint Gingembre that he is not to quit the Borgne, where the
  cultivators must not be set to work."

This letter never reached Fontaine, but was, instead, made the subject
of a consultation in the Captain-General's quarters.  Amidst the
boastings which he sent home, and by which France was amused, Leclerc
felt that his thirty-five thousand soldiers had made no progress
whatever in the real conquest of Saint Domingo.  He was aware that
France had less power there than before she had alienated L'Ouverture.
He felt that Toussaint was still the sovereign that he had been for ten
years past.  He knew that a glance of the eye, a lifting of the hand,
from Toussaint, wrought more than sheaves of ordinances from himself,
and all the commendations and flatteries of the First Consul.  Leclerc,
and the officers in his confidence, could never take a morning ride, or
give an evening party--they could never hear a negro singing, or amuse
themselves with children, playing on the shore or in the woods, without
being reminded that they were intruders, and that the native and
abundant loyalty of the inhabitants was all for their L'Ouverture, now
that France had put him in opposition to herself.  Leclerc and his
confidential advisers committed the error of attributing all this to
Toussaint's personal qualities; and they drew the false inference (most
acceptable to the First Consul) that if Toussaint were out of the way,
all would be well for the purposes of France.  Having never seriously
regarded the blacks as free men and fellow-citizens, these Frenchmen
omitted to perceive that a great part of their devotion to Toussaint was
loyalty to their race.  Proceeding on this mistake, Leclerc and his
council, sanctioned by the First Consul, ruined their work, lost their
object, and brought irretrievable disgrace upon their names--some of
which are immortalised only by the infamy of the act which ensued.

From day-to-day, they endeavoured to entrap Toussaint; but he knew it,
surrounded as he was by faithful and vigilant friends.  Day by day he
was warned of an ambush here, of spies there, or of an attempt meditated
for such an hour.  During a fortnight of incessant designs upon his
person, he so baffled all attempts as to induce a sort of suspicion
among the French soldiery that he was protected by magic.

It was an anxious season for his family.  Their only comfort was that it
would soon be over; that this, like all other evils connected with the
invasion, was to last only "till August;" the familiar words which were
the talisman of hope throughout the island.  The household at Pongaudin
counted the days till August; but it was yet only the beginning of June;
and the season passed heavily away.  On one occasion, a faithful servant
of Toussaint's was brought in dead--shot from a thicket which his master
was expected to pass.  On another, the road home was believed to be
beset; and all the messengers sent by the family to warn him of his
danger were detained on some frivolous pretext; and the household were
at length relieved by his appearing from the garden, having returned in
a boat provided by some of his scouts.  Now and then, some one mentioned
retiring to the mountains; but Toussaint would not hear of it.  He said
it would be considered a breach of the treaty, and would forfeit all the
advantages to be expected from a few weeks' patience.  The French were,
he knew, daily more enfeebled and distracted by sickness.  Caution and
patience, for two months more, would probably secure freedom without
bloodshed.  He had foreseen that the present perils would arise from the
truce; and still believed that it had better not have been made.  But,
as he had agreed to it, the first breach should not be on his part.

If Toussaint owed his danger to Christophe, he owed him the protection
by which he had thus far been preserved.  Worn as he was by perpetual
labour and anxiety, Henri seemed never to close his eyes in sleep during
this anxious season.  He felt to the full his responsibility, from the
hour of the first discovery of French treachery towards his friend.  By
day, he was scouring the country in the direction of Toussaint's rides.
By night, he was patrolling round the estate.  It seemed as if his eye
pierced the deepest shades of the woods; as if his ear caught up
whispers from the council-chamber in Tortuga.  For Henri's sake,
Toussaint ran no risks but such as duty absolutely required; for Henri's
sake, he freely accepted these toils on his behalf.  He knew it to be
essential to Henri's future peace that his personal safety should be
preserved through this season, and that Henri himself should be his
chief guardian.

Henri himself did not ask him to give up his rides.  It was necessary
that his people should have almost daily proof that he was among them,
safe and free.  It was necessary that the French should discern no
symptom of fear, of shrinking, of departure from the mode of life he had
proposed on retiring to his estate.  Almost daily, therefore, he rode;
and exhilarating did he find the rapid exercise, the danger, and, above
all, the knowledge he gained of the condition of his people, in fortunes
and in mind, and the confidence with which they hailed him, the
constancy with which they appealed to his authority, wherever he
appeared.

This knowledge enabled him to keep up more than the show of co-operation
with the French in matters which concerned the welfare of the people.
He pointed out gross abuses; and Leclerc hastened to remedy them.
Leclerc consulted him occasionally in local affairs, and had his best
advice.  This kind of correspondence, useful and innocent, could not
have been carried on to equal purpose but for Toussaint's rides.

By such excursions he verified a cause of complaint, concerning which he
had received applications at home.  In dispersing his troops over the
colony, Leclerc had taken care to quarter a very large proportion in the
districts near Gonaives, so as to enclose the residence of Toussaint
with the best of the French forces.  The canton of Henneri was
overcharged with these troops; so that the inhabitants were oppressed,
and the soldiers themselves suffered from scarcity of food, and from the
fever which raged in their crowded quarters.  Having ascertained this to
be the fact, Toussaint wrote to represent the case to Leclerc, and
received a speedy and favourable reply.  By Leclerc's command, General
Brunet wrote that this was an affair which came within his department;
that he was necessarily ignorant of the localities of Saint Domingo, and
of their respective resources; and that he should be thankful for
information and guidance from one who had a perfect knowledge of these
circumstances.  He proposed that General Toussaint should meet him in
the centre of the canton of Henneri, and instruct him concerning the
better distribution of the troops.

"See these whites!" said Toussaint, handing the letter to Monsieur
Pascal.  "Till they find they are wrong, they have no misgivings; they
know everything; and they are obliged at last to come, and learn of old
Toussaint."

"You will not meet General Brunet, as he proposes," said Monsieur
Pascal.  "You will not place yourself in the centre of the canton, among
their troops?"

"No, no; you will not!  You will not think of going!" cried Madame
L'Ouverture.

"For once, Margot, you bear ill-will towards those who compliment your
husband," said Toussaint, smiling.  "But be easy; I shall not go to the
canton of Henneri.  If I walk into a pitfall, it shall not be after
having seen it made.  I must meet General Brunet, however.  I shall
invite him here with an escort of twenty soldiers; promising to limit my
own guard to that number."

"He will not come," said Monsieur Pascal.

"I think he will; not because they trust me, for they know not what
trust is; but because I could gain nothing by any injury to General
Brunet and twenty soldiers that could compensate for a breach of the
treaty."

"The gain, from capture or violence, would be all the other way,
certainly," said Pascal, in a low voice.

"Henri will take care that General Brunet's is _bona fide_ an escort of
twenty.  There is reason for the meeting taking place here.  Maps will
be wanted, and other assistance which we might not remember to provide
elsewhere.  General Brunet must be my guest; and Madame L'Ouverture will
make him admire our hospitality."

General Brunet immediately accepted the invitation, promising to present
himself at Pongaudin on the tenth of June.



CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

A FEAT.

General Brunet brought with him no more than his allotted twenty
soldiers, and a secretary.  Christophe ascertained to his own
satisfaction, and let the household know, that not another French
soldier breathed within a circuit of some miles, when the evening closed
in; so that the ladies threw off constraint and fear together as the two
generals, with their secretaries, retired to the library, after coffee.

Placide had been with Christophe all day, and was the means by which the
household had been assured of the tranquillity of the neighbourhood.  He
was of the patrol which was to watch the roads during the night.  It
seemed improbable, however, that, of all nights, that should be chosen
for an assault when the Ouvertures must be particularly roused to
observation, and when a French general was in their hands.  Of all
nights, this was probably the safest; yet Placide, glad, perhaps, of an
excuse to keep out of the way of a guest from Paris, chose to mount
guard with Christophe.

Denis was permitted to be in the library, as the business was not
private, and, to one who knew the country as well as he did, very
entertaining.  For a time he found it so, while all the five were
stooping over the maps, and his father was explaining the nature of the
localities, and the interests of the inhabitants, and while words
dropped from General Brunet which gave an insight into that object of
Denis's strong curiosity--the French encampment on Tortuga.  When all of
this kind had been said, and the conversation turned upon points of
military science or management, which he did not care about, Denis drew
off to the window, and thence into the balcony, where he looked out upon
the night--vainly, for it was cloudy, and there was yet no moon.  The
air was cool and pleasant, however, and he remained leaning over the
balcony, revolving what he had heard, and picturing to himself the
little court of Madame Leclerc--so near, and yet out of his reach.
While thus absorbed, it is probable that some distant voice of song
instigated him to sing also.  Like his race generally, Denis was almost
always singing; always when alone and meditative.  It is probable that
some notes of the air sung by those who looked to August for freedom--
sung by the whole negro population--now caught his ear; for he began,
hardly to sing, but to murmur this popular air.  The words were not
heard within; and it would not have mattered if they had been; for the
words were in the negro language.  But the air was, by this time,
intelligible enough to the invaders.  In the interest of conversation,
nothing escaped the eye of Toussaint.  He saw an exchange of glances
between General Brunet and his secretary, and a half smile on the face
of each which he did not like.

He thought it best to take no notice; but, far from leaving off, Denis
sang louder as he sank deeper into reverie.  Monsieur Pascal became
aware of some embarrassment, and of its cause.

"Denis, you disturb us," he called out from the table.

They heard no more of Denis; and their business proceeded.  Vexed,
partly with himself, and partly at having been rebuked in General
Brunet's hearing, he went round the house by the balcony, and thence to
the upper gallery, which commanded the finest sea view in the day-time,
and the freshest sea breezes at night.  There, in a somewhat perverse
mood, he sang for his own pleasure the air which he had been checked for
singing unconsciously.  He remained there a long while--he did not know
how long--till the moon rose, when he remembered that it must be
midnight.  As no one had called him, he supposed that the party in the
library were still in consultation.

As his eye rested on the bay, while he was considering whether he must
not go in, he perceived something dark lying on the waters between the
island and the shore.  As he strained his sight, and as the waned moon
rose higher, he discovered that it was a ship.  It was strange.  No ship
ever had business there; though he had heard that there was a deep
channel, and good anchorage in that little bay.  It was very strange.
But something stranger still soon met his ear--sounds, first odd, then
painful--horrible.  There was some bustle below--on the beach, within
the little gate--he thought even on the lawn.  It was a scuffle; there
was a stifled cry.  He feared the guard were disarmed and gagged--
attacked on the side of the sea, where no one dreamed of an assault, and
where there was no Christophe to help.  Denis knew, however, how to
reach Christophe.  He did the right thing.  Lest his purpose should be
prevented if he entered the house, he clambered up the roof to its
ridge, and swung the heavy alarm-bell.  Its irregular clang banished
sleep in a moment from a circuit of many miles.  It not only startled
the ladies of the family from their beds; but every fisherman rushed
from his hut upon the shore.  Christophe and Placide were galloping to
Pongaudin almost before they had drawn a breath.  Every beast stirred in
its lair; and every bird rustled in its roost.  Rapid, however, as was
the spread of sound, it was too late to save L'Ouverture.

L'Ouverture himself had but a few moments of uncertainty to endure.  In
the midst of earnest conversation, suspicious sounds were heard.  The
two Frenchmen rushed to the door of the library, and Monsieur Pascal to
the balcony.  Monsieur Pascal re-entered in an instant, saying--

"The house is surrounded--the lawn is crowded.  Make no resistance, and
they may spare your life."

"Hark!  The bell!  There is hope," said Toussaint.  "No resistance! but
let us gain time."

The door was burst open, and with General Brunet entered a personage
whom he introduced as Admiral Ferrari, followed by a file of grenadiers.

"What can be your errand at this hour?" asked Toussaint.

"I have orders from the Captain-General to arrest you," replied Admiral
Ferrari.  "Your guards are disarmed and bound.  Our troops are
everywhere.  You are dead if you resist.  Deliver up your sword!"

"I shall not resist such a force as you have thought it necessary to
bring against me," replied Toussaint, handing his sword to the admiral.
"Am I to be a prisoner here, in my own house?"

"No, indeed!  I have orders to convey you and your family to Cap
Francais.  No delay!  To the boats this moment!  You will find your
family on board the frigate, or on the way to it."

"Do what you will with me; but Madame L'Ouverture is in weak health.
Suffer her and my children to remain at home."

"Lose no more time.  General.  March! or we must carry you."

Voices of lamentation and of passion were heard in the corridor, which
quickened L'Ouverture's movements more than threats or insults could
have done.  He left the library, and found the ladies of the household
in the corridor--Margot weeping and trembling, and Genifrede addressing
Monsieur Coasson in a tone of high anger.

"You here!  Monsieur Coasson!" said Toussaint; "and availing yourself
once more of the weakness and woes of women, I perceive."

"I came as guide," replied Monsieur Coasson.  "The admiral and his
troops needed some one to show them the way; and, as you are aware, I
was qualified to do so.  I have always felt, too, that I had a sort of
appointment to fulfil with this young lady.  Her kind expressions
towards the whites on my last visit might be considered a sort of
invitation to come again--with such a train as you see," pointing to the
stiff row of grenadiers who stood behind.

Genifrede groaned.

"Make yourself happy with your train," said Toussaint, as he seized the
wretch by the collar, hurled him back among the grenadiers, and kicked
him over as he lay, introducing great disorder into the formal
arrangements of that dignified guard.

This would have been the last moment of Toussaint, if General Brunet had
not drawn his sword, and commanded every one to stand back.  His orders,
he said, were to deliver his prisoner alive.

"Come, my love," said Toussaint to Madame L'Ouverture.  "We are to sleep
on board a frigate this night.  Come.  Genifrede!  We may sleep in
peace.  General Brunet will hardly be able to digest your hospitality,
my Margot; but _you_ may sleep.  Who else?" he asked, as he looked round
upon his trembling household.

"We are following," said Monsieur Pascal, who had his wife and
Euphrosyne on either arm.

"Pardon me," said General Brunet.  "Our orders extend only to General
Toussaint and his family.  You must remain.  Reverend father," he said
to Father Laxabon, "you will remain also--to comfort any friends of
General Toussaint whom you may be able to meet with to-morrow.  They
will be all inconsolable, no doubt."

Monsieur Coasson whispered to the admiral, who said, in consequence,
bowing to Euphrosyne--

"I can answer for this young lady being a welcome guest to Madame
Leclerc.  If she will afford to a countryman the pleasure and honour of
conveying her, it will give him joy to introduce her to a society worthy
of her."

"I do not wish to see Madame Leclerc," said Euphrosyne, speaking with
surprising calmness, though her cheek was white as ashes.  "I wish to be
wherever I may best testify my attachment to these my honoured friends,
in the day of their undeserved adversity."

She looked from Monsieur Pascal to L'Ouverture.

"Stay with those who can be your guardians," said Toussaint.

"For our sakes," added Genifrede.

"Stay with us!" cried Monsieur Pascal and Afra.

"Farewell, then," said Euphrosyne, extending her arms to Madame
L'Ouverture.

"We are losing time," said General Brunet, as the clang of the
alarm-bell was heard again.  By his order, some soldiers went in search
of the traitor who was ringing the bell; and others pushed the captive
family before them towards the door.  Monsieur Coasson thrust himself
between the parting friends, and began to count the family, in order to
tell who was missing.  It would not do, he observed, to leave any
behind.

"Lose no more time," said the admiral.  "Those who may be left behind
are cared for, I promise you.  We have a hundred of them safe already."

"A hundred of whom?" asked Toussaint, as he walked.

"Of your friends," replied Admiral Ferrari.

This was too true.  A hundred of Toussaint's most attached adherents had
been seized this night.  No one of them was ever again heard of in the
island.

At the door of the mansion Denis was brought forward, guarded.  His eyes
were flashing fire.

"The country is up!" he cried.  "I got good service out of the old bell
before they found me."

"Right, my boy!  Thank you!" said his father, cheerfully.

"Give Genifrede to me, father.  My mother is ready to sink."

Proudly he supported his sister to the boats, carrying her on so rapidly
as to prevent the need of any soldier speaking to her.

There was an array of boats along the shore of the bay.  Distant firing
was heard during the whole time that the prisoners and the troops were
embarking.

"They must be very much afraid of us," observed Denis, looking round, as
soon as he had taken his place beside his sister in the boat.  "They
have given us above a hundred guards, I believe."

"They are afraid of us," said Toussaint.

"There is terrible fighting somewhere," murmured the weeping Margot.  "I
am afraid Placide is in the midst of it."

"He is in his duty if he be," said Toussaint.

Placide had discharged this kind of duty, however, and now appeared to
fulfil the other--of sharing the captivity of his parents.  He leaped
into the boat, breathless, after it had pushed off from the shore.

"In time, thank God!" gasped he.

"He can hardly speak!" exclaimed his mother.  "He is wet!  He is
wounded--cruelly wounded!"

"Not wounded at all, mother.  Whole in heart and skin!  I am soaked in
the blood of our enemies.  We have fought gloriously--in vain, however,
for to-night.  Latortue is shot; and Jasmin.  There are few left but
Christophe; but he is fighting like a lion."

"Why did you leave him, my son?" asked Toussaint.

"He desired me to come, again and again, and I fought on.  At last I was
cut off from him.  I could not give any more help there; and I saw that
my business lay here.  They say this frigate is the _Creole_.  Whither
bound, I wonder?"

"To Cap Francais," replied the officer in the stern: "to join the
_Heros_, now in the roads there."

"The _Heros_--a seventy-four, I think," said L'Ouverture.

"A seventy-four--you are correct," replied the officer.  No one spoke
again.



CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

TRUCE NO MORE.

When Toussaint set foot on the deck of the _Heros_, on the evening of
the next day, the commander stood ready to receive him--and not only the
commander.  Soldiers also stood ready with chains, with which they lost
no time in fettering the old man's ankles and wrists.  While they were
doing this, Toussaint quietly said to the commander--

"By my overthrow, the trunk of the tree of negro liberty is laid low;
only the trunk.  It will shoot out again from the roots; and they are
many and deep."

The moment the soldiers stepped back, and allowed access to him, Aimee
was in his arms; and Isaac, in great agitation, presented himself.

"I will never leave you more, father!" said he.  "These fetters!
Nothing should have made me believe such treatment possible.  I trusted
Leclerc as firmly as I trusted you.  I have been living with him while
he meditated chains for you.  I am humbled for ever!  All I can do now
is to devote myself to you, as Placide did at the right time.  Would I
were Placide!  I am humbled for ever!"

"No, my son: not for ever.  It is a common lot to be humbled for the
credulous confidence of youth.  It is a safer and a nobler error, Isaac,
than its opposite.  It is better than unbelief in the virtue of man."

"You torture me with your goodness, father!"

"I deal with you as with myself, Isaac.  In the young days of my freedom
I trusted falsely, as you have done.  I believed in Bonaparte, as you
have believed in Leclerc.  We have both received a lesson; but I do not
feel humbled for ever; nor must you."

"Would I were Placide!" was all that Isaac could say.

"You are so good to Isaac and me," said Aimee, timidly, "that perhaps
you would (could you?) see Vincent."

"No, my child.  Vincent is not like Isaac.  He cannot be made wise by
experience; and his folly is scarcely to be distinguished from
treachery.  I cannot see General Vincent."

No choice was allowed, however.  Vincent rushed forward, knelt before
Toussaint, and clasped his knees, imploring, in a convulsion of grief,
pardon for the past, and permission to devote every hour of his future
life to the family whom he had ruined.

"My pardon you have," said L'Ouverture.  "I should rather say my
compassion; for you never deliberately designed treachery, I am
persuaded."

"I never did!  I never did!"

"Neither had you any good design.  You have been selfish, vain, and
presumptuous; as far from comprehending my purposes as from having
criminal ones of your own.  In the new circumstances in which negroes
are placed, many must fall, however firmly some may stand.  You are
among the infirm; and therefore, however I may mourn, I do not resent
what you have done."

"Thank God!  You pardon me!  Thank God!  Henceforth, with Aimee to watch
over me--with you to guide me--"

"No, Vincent!  You cannot be with me.  Aimee is free as she has ever
been; but you cannot be with me.  I go to martyrdom: to fulfil what
appears to be the solemn vocation of the Ouvertures.  I go to martyrdom;
and none but steady souls must travel that way with me."

"You scorn me," said Vincent, springing from his knees.  "Your acts show
that you scorn me.  You take that poor fellow," pointing to Mars
Plaisir, "and you reject me."

"My son's servant," said Toussaint, smiling.  "He goes to his beloved
France, free to quit us for any other service, when ours becomes too
grave for his light spirit.  I would not insult you by taking you on a
like condition.  You must leave us, Vincent," pointing to the _Creole's_
boat, now about to put off from the _Heros_.  "We will pray for you.
Farewell!"

"Aimee!" said her lover, scarcely daring to raise his eyes to her face.

"Farewell, Vincent!"  Aimee strove to say.

In vain Vincent endeavoured to plead.  Aimee shook her head, signed to
him to go, and hid her face on her father's shoulder.  It was too much.
Humbled to the point of exasperation, Vincent throw himself over the
ship's side into the boat, and never more saw the face of an Ouverture.

"I have nothing left but you," sobbed Aimee--"but you and my mother.  If
they kill you my mother will die, and I shall be desolate."

"Your brothers, my child."

"No, no.  I have tried all.  I left you to try.  I loved you always; but
I thought I loved others more.  But--"

"But," said her father, when she could not proceed, "you found the lot
of woman.  To woman the affections are all: to men, even to brothers,
they are not.  Courage, Aimee!  Courage! for you are an Ouverture.
Courage to meet your woman's martyrdom!"

"Let me rest upon your heart, father; and I can bear anything."

"Would I could, my child!  But they will not allow it--these jailors.
They will part us."

"I wish these chains could bind me too--these very links--that I might
never leave you," cried Aimee, kissing the fetters which bound her
father's arms.

"Your mother's heart, Aimee; that remains."

"I will keep it from breaking, father, trust me."

And the mother and daughter tasted something like happiness, even in an
hour like this, in their re-union.  It was a strange kind of comfort to
Aimee to hear from her mother how long ago her father had foreseen, at
Pongaudin, that the day might come when her heart would be torn between
her lover and her family.  The impending blow had been struck--the
struggle had taken place: and it only remained now to endure it.

"Father!" said Genifrede, appealing to Toussaint, with a grave
countenance, "you say that none but brave and steady souls must go with
you on your way to martyrdom.  You know me to be cowardly as a slave,
and unstable as yonder boat now tossing on the waves.  Do you see that
boat, father?"

"Surely--yes; it is Paul;" said Toussaint, looking through his glass.
"Paul is coming to say farewell."

"Let me return with him, father.  Let me become his child.  I am
unworthy to be yours.  And he and I are so forlorn!"

Her father's tender gaze encouraged her to say more.  Drawing closer,
she whispered--

"I have seen Moyse--I have seen him more than once in the Morne; and I
cannot leave this place.  Let me stay."

"Stay, my child.  Seek consolation in your own way.  We will all pray
for you; we will all console your mother for your absence.  We shall not
meet again on earth, Genifrede."

"I know it, father.  But the time of rest--how long it is in coming!"

"My child, our rest is in the soul--it lies not either in place or time.
Do not look for it in the grave, unless you have it first in the soul."

"Then would I had never been born!"

"How different will be your cry when you have been a daughter to Paul
for a while!  When you see him consoled, and reposing upon your care,
you will say, `I thank God that I have lived for this!'  A great duty
lies before you, my dear child; and in the heart of duty lies rest--a
deeper than that of the grave.  Shall I give you a duty to discharge for
me?"

"Oh, yes!  I will take it as your blessing."

"Convey to Christophe my last message.  Bid him rejoice for me that my
work is done.  My work is now his.  Bid him remember how we always
agreed that freedom is safe.  I bequeath the charge of it to him, with
my blessing."

"He shall know this, if he lives, before the moon rises."

"If he does not live, let Dessalines hear what was my message to
Christophe.  He will know how much to take to himself."

It was well that this message was given without further delay.
Toussaint was summoned to speak with some officers of Leclerc's council,
in the cabin below.  At the clank of his chains upon the deck all eyes
were upon him, except those of his own family, which were turned away in
grief.

"Before your departure," said one of the officers, in the small cabin to
which Toussaint was conducted, "we would urge you to do a service to the
colony which yet remains in your power.  You must not refuse this last
service."

"I have never refused to serve the colony; and I am as willing to-day as
ever."

"No doubt.  Reveal to us, then, the spot in the Mornes du Chaos, in
which your treasures lie buried, and state their amount."

"I have before said that I have buried no treasures.  Do you disbelieve
my word?"

"We are sorry to do so; but facts are against you.  You cannot deceive
us.  We know that you caused certain of your dependents to bury treasure
near the Plateaux de la Ravine; and that you afterwards shot these
servants, to secure your secret."

"Is it possible?"

"You see we have penetrated your counsels.  The time for concealment is
past.  You take your family with you; and none of you will ever return.
Your friends are, most of them, disposed of.  A new order of things has
commenced.  You boast of your patriotism.  Show it now by giving up the
treasure of the colony to the uses of the colony."

"I have already devoted my all to the colony.  I reply once more that I
leave behind me no treasure but that which you cannot appreciate--the
grateful hearts of my people."

The investigation was pressed--the inquiry made, under every form of
appeal that could be devised; and in vain.  Toussaint disdained to
repeat his reply; and he spoke no more.  The officers left him with
threats on their lips.  The door was locked and barred behind them, and
Toussaint found himself a solitary prisoner.

During the night the vessel got under weigh.  What at that hour were the
secrets which lay hid in the mountain-passes, the forest-shades, and the
sad homes of the island whose true ruler was now borne away from its
shores?

Pongaudin was already deserted.  Monsieur and Madame Pascal had, by
great activity, obtained a passage for France in the ship which was
freighted with Leclerc's boastings of his crowning feat.  They were
already far on the sea before the _Heros_ spread its sails.  Leclerc's
announcement of Toussaint's overthrow was as follows:--

  "I intercepted letters which he had written to one Fontaine, who was
  his agent at Cap Francais.  These afforded an unanswerable proof that
  he was engaged in a conspiracy, and that he was anxious to regain his
  former influence in the colony.  He waited only for the result of
  disease among the troops.

  "Under these circumstances, it would be improper to give him time to
  mature his criminal designs.  I ordered him to be apprehended--a
  difficult task; but it succeeded through the excellent arrangements
  made by General Brunet, who was entrusted with its execution, and the
  zeal and ardour of Admiral Ferrari.

  "I am sending to France, with all his family, this deeply perfidious
  man, who, by his consummate hypocrisy, has done us so much mischief.
  The government will determine how it should dispose of him.

  "The apprehension of General Toussaint occasions some disturbances.
  Two leaders of the insurgents are already in custody, and I have
  ordered them to be shot.  About a hundred of his confidential
  partisans have been secured, of whom some are on board the _Muiron_
  frigate, which is under orders for the Mediterranean; and the rest are
  distributed among the different ships of the squadron.

  "I am daily occupied in settling the affairs of the colony, with the
  least possible inconvenience: but the excessive heat, and the diseases
  which attack us, render it an extremely painful task.  I am impatient
  for the approach of the month of September, when the season will
  renovate our activity.

  "The departure of Toussaint has produced general joy at Cap Francais.

  "The Commissary of Justice, Mont Peson, is dead.  The Colonial
  Prefect, Benezech, is breathing his last.  The Adjutant-commandant,
  Dampier, is dead: he was a young officer of great promise.

  "I have the honour, etcetera,--"

  Signed--

  "Leclerc."

On board the vessel which carried these tidings was Pascal, prepared to
give a different version of the late transactions, and revolving, with
Afra, the means by which he might best employ such influence as he had
on behalf of his friend.  Theirs was a nearly hopeless errand, they well
knew; but the less hopeful, the more anxious were they to do what they
could.

Was Euphrosyne with them?--No.  She never forgot the duty which she had
set before her--to stay near Le Bosquet, in hopes of better times, when
she might make reparation to the people of the estate for what they had
suffered at her grandfather's hands.  A more pressing duty also detained
her on the island.  She could be a daughter to Monsieur Raymond in
Afra's stead, and thus make their duty easier to the Pascals.  Among the
lamentations and prayers which went up from the mourning island were
those of the old man and the young girl who wept together at Le Zephyr--
scarcely attempting yet to forgive the enemies whose treachery had
outraged the Deliverer--as he was henceforth called, more fondly than
ever.  They were not wholly wretched.  They dwelt on the surprise and
pleasure it would be to the Ouvertures to find the Pascals in France
before them.  Euphrosyne had also the satisfaction of doing something,
however indirectly, for her unfortunate friends; and she really enjoyed
the occupation, to her so familiar, and still so dear, of ministering to
the comfort of an old man, who had no present dependence but on her.

Her cares and duties were soon increased.  The habitations of the Plain
du Nord became so disgusting and so dangerous as the pestilence strewed
the land with dead, and the survivors of the French army became, in
proportion to the visitation, desperate and savage, that Madame Oge was,
at length, like all her neighbours, driven from her home.  She wished to
take refuge with one of her own colour; and Monsieur Raymond, at
Euphrosyne's suggestion, invited her to Le Zephyr, to await better days.
With a good grace did Euphrosyne go out to meet her; with a good grace
did she welcome and entertain her.  The time was past when she could be
terrified with evil prognostications.  In the hour of the earthquake, no
one heeds the croak of the raven.

Among the nuns at Saint Marc there was trembling, which the pale abbess
herself could not subdue by reason or exhortation.  Their ears were
already weary with the moans of the dying.  They had now to hear the
shrieks and curses of the kidnapped blacks--the friends of L'Ouverture--
whose homes were made desolate.  The terrified women could not but ask
each other, "who next?" for they all loved L'Ouverture, and had declared
their trust in him.  No one injured the household of the abbess,
however; and the sisters were all spared, in safety and honour, to hear
the proclamation of the Independence of Hayti, and to enjoy the
protection and friendship of its beloved Empress.

And where was she--Therese--when Saint Marc was resounding with the
cries of her husband's betrayed companions and friends?  She was on the
way to the fastnesses, where her unyielding husband was preparing a
tremendous retribution for those whom he had never trusted.  She
rejoiced, solemnly but mournfully, that he had never yielded.  She could
not wonder that the first words of Dessalines to her, when he met her
horse on the steep, were a command that she would never more intercede
for a Frenchman--never more hold back his strong hand from the work
which he had now to do.  She never did, till that which, in a chief, was
warfare, became, in an emperor, vengeance.  Then she resumed her woman's
office of intercession; and by it won for herself the title of "the Good
Empress."

The eyes which first caught sight of the receding ship _Heros_, at dawn,
were those of Paul L'Ouverture and Genifrede.  They had sent messengers,
more likely than themselves to reach Christophe and Dessalines, with the
last message of Toussaint; and they were now at leisure to watch, from
the heights above their hut (their home henceforth), the departure of
all who bore their name.  They were left alone, but not altogether
forlorn.  They called each other father and daughter; and here they
could freely, and for ever, mourn Moyse.

Christophe received the message.  It was not needed to rouse him to take
upon himself, or to share with Dessalines, the office of him who was
gone.  The thoughts of his heart were told to none.  They were
unspeakable, except by the language of deeds.  His deeds proclaimed
them: and after his faithful warfare, during his subsequent mild reign,
his acts of liberality, wisdom, and mercy, showed how true was his
understanding of the mission of L'Ouverture.

There were many to share his work to-day.  Dessalines was the chief: but
leaders sprang up wherever soldiers appeared, asking to be led; and that
was everywhere, from the moment of the report of the abduction of
Toussaint.  Clerveaux revolted from the French, and visited on them the
bitterness of his remorse.  Maurepas also repented, and was putting his
repentance into action when he was seized, tortured, and murdered, with
his family.  Bellair and his wife conducted with new spirit, from this
day, a victorious warfare which was never intermitted, being bequeathed
by their barbarous deaths to their exasperated followers.

It was true, as Toussaint knew and felt in his solitary prison on the
waters, that the groans which went up from the heights and hollows, the
homes and the fastnesses of the island, were such as could not but unite
in a fearful war-cry; but it was also true, as he had known and felt
during the whole term of his power, that in this war victory could not
be doubtful.  He had been made the portal of freedom to his race.  The
passions of men might gather about it, and make a conflict, more or less
tremendous and protracted; but the way which God had opened, and guarded
by awakened human hearts, no multitude of rebellious human hands could
close.



CHAPTER FORTY.

MEETING WINTER.

It was a glorious day, that twelfth of June, when the _Heros_ sailed
away from the shores of Saint Domingo.  Before the _Heros_ could sail
quite away, it was compelled to hover, as it were, about the shadow of
the land--to advance and retreat--to say farewell, apparently, and then
to greet it again.  The wind was north-east, so that a direct course was
impossible; and the Ouverture family assembled, with the exception of
Toussaint himself, upon deck, gave vent, again and again, to their
tears--again and again strained their eyes, as the mountains with their
shadowy sides, the still forests, the yellow sands, and the quiet
settlements of the lateral valleys, came into view, or faded away.

L'Ouverture's cabin, to which he was strictly confined during the
voyage, had a window in the stern, and he, too, had therefore some
change of prospect.  He gazed eagerly at every shifting picture of the
land; but most eagerly when he found himself off Cap Samana.  With his
pocket-glass he explored and discovered the very point of rough ground
on the height where he stood with Christophe, less than six months
before, to watch the approach, and observe the rendezvous, of the French
fleet.  He remembered, as his eye was fixed upon the point, his naming
to Henri this very ship, in which he was now a prisoner, sailing away,
never more to return.

"Be it so!" he thought, according to his wont.  "My blacks are not
conquered, and will never more be slaves."

The wind soon changed, and the voyage was a rapid one.  Short as it was,
it was tedious; for, with the exception of Mars Plaisir, who was
appointed to wait on him, the prisoner saw no one.  Again and again he
caught the voices of his children, singing upon deck--no doubt in order
to communicate with him: but, in every instance, almost before he had
begun to listen, the song ceased.  Mars Plaisir explained that it was
silenced by the captain's order.  No captain's order had power to stop
the prisoner's singing.  Every night was Aimee consoled, amidst her
weeping, by the solemn air of her father's favourite Latin Hymn to Our
Lady of the Sea: every morning was Margot roused to hope by her
husband's voice, singing his matin-prayer.  Whatever might be the
captain's apprehensions of political danger from these exercises, he
gave over the opposition which had succeeded so well with the women.

"My father crossed this sea," thought Toussaint: "and little could he
have dreamed that the next of his race would cross it also, a prince and
a prisoner.  He, the son of a king, was seized and sold as a slave.  His
son, raised to be a ruler by the hand of Him who creates princes
(whether by birth or royalty of soul), is kidnapped, and sacrificed to
the passions of a rival.  Such is our life!  But in its evil there is
good.  If my father had not crossed this sea as a slave, Saint Domingo
would have wanted me; and in me, perhaps, its freedom and civilisation.
If I had not been kidnapped, my blacks might have lacked wrath to
accomplish the victory to which I have led them.  If my father is
looking back on this world, I doubt not he rejoices in the degradation
which brought elevation to his race; and, as for me, I lay the few years
of my old age a ready sacrifice on the altar of Africa."

Sometimes he amused himself with the idea of surveying, at last, the
Paris of which he had heard so much.  Oftener, however, he dwelt with
complacency on the prospect of seeing Bonaparte--of meeting his rival,
mind to mind.  He knew that Bonaparte's curiosity about him was eager,
and he never doubted that he should be called to account personally for
his government, in all its details.  He did not consider that the great
captain of the age might fear to meet his victim--might shrink from the
eye of a brother-soldier whom he had treated worse than a felon.

Time and disappointment taught the prisoner this.  None of his dreams
were verified.  In Brest harbour he was hurried from the ship--allowed a
parting embrace of his family upon deck--no more; not a sentence of
conversation, though all the ship's crew were by to hear.  Mars Plaisir
alone was allowed to accompany him.  Two hurried whispers alone were
conveyed to his ear.  Placide assured him (yet how could it be?) that
Monsieur Pascal was in France and would exert himself.  And Margot told
him, amidst her sobs, that she had done the one only thing she could--
she had prayed for Bonaparte, as she promised, that night of prophetic
woe at Pongaudin.

Nothing did he see of Paris but some of the dimly-lighted streets, as he
was conveyed, at night, to the prison of the Temple.  During the weeks
that he was a prisoner there, he looked in vain for a summons to the
presence of the First Consul, or for the First Consul's appearance in
his apartment.  One of Bonaparte's aides, Caffarelli, came indeed, and
brought messages: but these messages were only insulting inquiries about
the treasures--the treasures buried in the mornes;--for ever these
treasures!  This recurring message, with its answer, was all the
communication he had with Bonaparte; and the hum and murmur from the
streets were all that he knew of Paris.  When Bonaparte, nettled with
the reply--"The treasures I have lost are far other than those you
seek,"--was convinced that no better answer would be obtained, he gave
the order which had been impending during those weeks of confinement in
the Temple.

When Bonaparte found his first leisure, after the fetes and bustle
occasioned in August by his being made First Consul for life, he issued
his commands regarding the disposal of his West Indian prisoner: and
presently Toussaint was traversing France, with Mars Plaisir for his
companion in captivity--with an officer, as a guard, inside the closed
carriage; another guard on the box; and one, if not two, mounted in
their rear.

The journey was conducted under circumstances of great mystery.  The
blinds of the carriage were never let down; provisions were served out
while the party was in full career; and the few baitings that were made
were contrived to take place, either during the night, or in
unfrequented places.  It was clear that the complexion of the strangers
was not to be seen by the inhabitants.  All that Toussaint could learn
was that they were travelling south-east.

"Have you mountains in your island?" asked the officer, letting down the
blind just so much, when the carriage turned a corner of the road, as to
permit to himself a glimpse of the scenery.  "We are entering the Jura.
Have you mountains in your island?"

Toussaint left it to Mars Plaisir to answer this question; which he did
with indignant volubility, describing the uses and the beauties of the
heights of Saint Domingo, from the loftiest peaks which intercept the
hurricane, to the lowest, crested with forts or spreading their
blossoming groves to the verge of the valleys.

"We too have fortresses on our heights," said the officer.  "Indeed, you
will be in one of them before night.  When we are on the other side of
Pontarlier, we will look about us a little."

"Then, on the other side of Pontarlier, we shall meet no people,"
observed Mars Plaisir.

"People!  Oh, yes! we have people everywhere in France."

When Pontarlier was passed, and the windows of the carriage were thrown
open, the travellers perceived plainly enough why this degree of liberty
was allowed.  The region was so wild, that none were likely to come
hither in search of the captives.  There were inhabitants; but few
likely to give information as to who had passed along the road.  There
were charcoal-burners up on the hill-side; there were women washing
clothes in the stream which rushed along, far below in the valley; the
miller was in his mill, niched in the hollow beside the waterfall; and
there might still be inmates in the convent which stood just below the
firs, on the knoll to the left of the road.  But by the wayside, there
were none who, with curious eyes, might mark, and with eager tongue
report, the complexion of the strangers who were rapidly whirled along
towards Joux.

Toussaint shivered as the chill mountain air blew in.  Perhaps what he
saw chilled him no less than what he felt.  He might have unconsciously
expected to see something like the teeming slopes of his own mountains,
the yellow ferns, the glittering rocks, shining like polished metal in
the sun.  Instead of these, the scanty grass was of a blue-green; the
stunted firs were black; and the patches of dazzling white intermingled
with them formed a contrast of colour hideous to the eye of a native of
the tropics.

"That is snow," exclaimed Mars Plaisir to his master, with the pride of
superior experience.

"I know it," replied Toussaint, quietly.

The carriage now laboured up a steep ascent.  The _brave homme_ who
drove alighted on one side, and the guard on the other, and walked up
the hill, to relieve the horses.  The guard gathered such flowers as met
his eye; and handed into the carriage a blue gentian which had till now
lingered on the borders of the snows,--or a rhododendron, for which he
had scaled a crag.  His officer roughly ordered him not to leave the
track.

"If we had passed this way two or three months earlier," he said
complacently to his prisoners, "we should have found cowslips here and
there, all along the road.  We have a good many cowslips in early
summer.  Have you cowslips in your island?"

Toussaint smiled as he thought of the flower-strewn savannahs, where
more blossoms opened and perished in an hour than in this dreary region
all the summer through.  He heard Mars Plaisir compelled to admit that
he had never seen cowslips out of France.

At length, after several mountings and dismountings of the driver and
guard, they seemed, on entering a defile, to apply themselves seriously
to their business.  The guard cast a glance along the road, and up the
sides of the steeps, and beckoned to the horsemen behind to come on; and
the driver repeatedly cracked his whip.  Silence settled down on the
party within the carriage; for all understood that they drew near the
fortress.  In silence they wound through the defile, till all egress
seemed barred by a lofty crag.  The road, however, passed round its
base, and disclosed to view a small basin among the mountains, in the
midst of which rose the steep which bore the fortress of Joux.  At the
foot of this steep lay the village; a small assemblage of sordid
dwellings.  At this village four roads met, from as many defiles which
opened into this centre.  A mountain-stream gushed along, now by the
road-side, now winding and growing quieter among the little plot of
green fields which lay in the rear of the castle rock.  This plot of
vivid green cheered, for a moment, the eye of the captives; but a second
glance showed that it was but a swamp.  This swamp, crags, firs, and
snow, with the dirty village, made up the prospect.  As for the
inhabitants--as the carriage stopped short of the village, none were to
be seen, but a girl with her distaff amidst a flock of goats, and some
soldiers on the castle walls above.

There appeared to be but one road up the rock--a bridle or foot road to
the right, too narrow and too steep for any carriage.  Where this joined
the main road the carriage stopped; and the prisoners were desired to
alight.

"We must trouble you to walk up this hill," said the officer, "unless
you prefer to mount, and have your horse led."

Before he had finished speaking, Toussaint was many paces in advance of
his guards.  But few opportunities had he enjoyed, of late, of
exercising his limbs.  He believed that this would be the last; and he
sprang up the rocky pathway with a sense of desperate pleasure.  Panting
and heated, the most active of the soldiers reached the summit some
moments after him.  Toussaint had made use of those few moments.  He had
fixed in his memory the loading points of the landscape towards the
east--the bearings of the roads which opened glimpses into two valleys
on that side--the patches of enclosure--the nooks of pasture where cows
were grazing, and children were at play--these features of the landscape
he eagerly comprehended--partly for use, in case of any opportunity of
escape; partly for solace, if he should not henceforth be permitted to
look abroad.

A few, and but a few, more moments he had, while the drawbridge was
lowered, the portcullis raised, and the guard sent in with some order
from his officer.  Toussaint well knew that that little plot of fields,
with its winding stream, was the last verdure that he might ever see.
The snowy summits which peered over the fir-tops were prophets of death
to him; for how should he, who had gone hither and thither under the sun
of the tropics for sixty years, live chained among the snows?  Well did
he know this; yet he did not wait to be asked to pass the bridge.

The drawbridge and the courtyard were both deserted.  Not a soldier was
to be seen.  Mars Plaisir muttered his astonishment, but his master
understood, that the presence of negro prisoners in the fortress was not
to become known.  He read in this incident a prophecy of total
seclusion.

They were marched rapidly through the courtyard, into a dark passage,
where they were desired to stop.  In a few moments Toussaint heard the
tramp of feet about the gate, and understood that the soldiers had been
ordered back to their post.

"The Commandant," the officer announced to his prisoners; and the
Commandant Rubaut entered the dim passage.  Toussaint formed his
judgment of him, to a certain extent, in a moment.  Rubaut endeavoured
to assume a tone of good-humoured familiarity; but there appeared
through this a misgiving as to whether he was thus either letting
himself down, on the one hand, or, on the other, encroaching on the
dignity of the person he addressed.  His prisoner was a negro; but then
he had been the recognised Commander-in-Chief of Saint Domingo.  One
symptom of awkwardness was, that he addressed Toussaint by no sort of
title.

"We have had notice of your approach," said he; "which is fortunate, as
it enables me to conduct you at once to your apartment.  Will you
proceed?  This way.  A torch, Bellines!  We have been looking for you
these two days; which happens very well, as we have been enabled to
prepare for you.  Torches, Bellines!  This way.  We mount a few steps,
you perceive.  We are not taking you underground, though I call for
lights; but this passage to the left, you perceive, is rather dark.
Yes, that is our well; and a great depth it is--deeper, I assure you,
than this rock is high.  What do they call the depth, Chalot?  Well,
never mind the depth!  You can follow me, I believe, without waiting for
a light.  We cannot go wrong.  Through this apartment to the left."

Toussaint, however, chose to wait for Bellines and his torch.  He chose
to see what he could of the passages of his prison.  If this vault in
which he stood were not underground, it was the dreariest apartment from
which the daylight had ever been built out.  In the moment's pause
occasioned by his not moving on when desired, he heard the dripping of
water as in a well.

Bellines appeared, and his torch showed the stone walls of the vault
shining with the trickling of water.  A cold steam appeared to thicken
the air, oppress the lungs, and make the torch burn dim.

"To what apartment can this be the passage?" thought Toussaint.  "The
grave is warm compared with this."

A glance of wretchedness from Mars Plaisir, seen in the torchlight, as
Bellines passed on to the front, showed that the poor fellow's spirits,
and perhaps some visions of a merry life among the soldiers, had melted
already in the damps of this vault.  Rubaut gave him a push, which
showed that he was to follow the torch-bearer.

Through this vault was a passage, dark, wet, and slippery.  In the
left-hand wall of this passage was a door, studded with iron nails
thickly covered with rust.  The key was in this door.  During the
instant required for throwing it wide, a large flake of ice fell from
the ceiling of the passage upon the head of Toussaint.  He shook it off,
and it extinguished the torch.

"You mean to murder us," said he, "if you propose to place us here.  Do
you not know that ice and darkness are the negro's poison?  Snow, too,"
he continued, advancing to the cleft of his dungeon wall, at the outward
extremity of which was his small grated window.  "Snow piled against
this window now!  We shall be buried under it in winter."

"You will have good fires in winter."

"In winter!  Yes! this night; or I shall never see winter."

"This night!  Oh, certainly!  You can have a fire, though it is not
usual with us at this season.  Bellines--a fire here immediately."

He saw his prisoner surveying, by the dim light from the deep window,
the miserable cell--about twenty-eight feet by thirteen, built of blocks
of stone, its vaulted ceiling so low that it could be touched by the
hand; its floor, though planked, rotten and slippery with wet; and no
furniture to be seen but a table, two chairs, and two heaps of straw in
opposite corners.

"I am happy," said the Commandant, "to have been able to avoid putting
you underground.  The orders I have had, from the First Consul himself,
as to your being _mis au secret_, are very strict.  Notwithstanding
that, I have been able, you see, to place you in an apartment which
overlooks the courtyard; and which, too, affords you other objects"--
pointing through the gratings to the few feet of the pavement without,
and the few yards of the perpendicular rock opposite, which might be
seen through the loop-hole.

"How many hours of the day and night are we to pass in tills place?"

"How many hours?  We reckon twenty-four hours to the day and night, as
is the custom in Europe," replied Rubaut; whether in ignorance or irony,
his prisoner could not, in the dim twilight, ascertain.  He only learned
too surely that no exit from this cell was to be allowed.

Firewood and light were brought.  Rubaut, eager to be busy till he could
go, and to be gone as soon as possible, found fault with some
long-deceased occupant of the cell, for having covered its arched
ceiling with grotesque drawings in charcoal; and then with Bellines, for
not having dried the floor.  Truly the light gleamed over it as over a
pond.  Bellines pleaded in his defence that the floor had been dried
twice since morning; but that there was no stopping the melting of the
ice above.  The water would come through the joints till the winter
frosts set in.

"Ay, the winter frosts--they will set all to rights.  They will cure the
melting of the ice, no doubt."  Turning to his prisoners, he
congratulated himself on not being compelled to search their persons.
The practice of searching was usual, but might, he rejoiced to say, be
dispensed with on the present occasion.  He might now, therefore, have
the pleasure of wishing them a good evening.

Pointing to the two heaps of straw, he begged that his prisoners would
lay down their beds in any part of the cell which pleased them best.
Their food, and all that they wanted, would be brought to the door
regularly.  As for the rest, they would wait upon each other.  Having
thus exhausted his politeness, he quitted the cell; and lock, bolt, and
bar were fastened upon the captives.

By the faint light, Toussaint then perceived that his companion was
struggling with laughter.  When Mars Plaisir perceived by his master's
smile that he had leave to give way, he laughed till the cell rang
again, saying--

"Wait upon each other!  His Excellency wait upon me!  His Excellency
wait upon anybody!"

"There would be nothing new in that.  I have endeavoured to wait upon
others all my life.  Rarely does Providence grant the favour to wait
upon so many."

Mars Plaisir did not comprehend this, and therefore continued--

"These whites think that we blacks are created to be serving, serving
always--always serving."

"And they are right.  Their mistake is in not seeing that the same is
the case with all other men."

In his incessant habit of serving those about him, Toussaint now
remembered that it would be more kind to poor Mars Plaisir to employ
him, than to speak of things which he could not comprehend.  He signed
to him, therefore, to shake down the straw on each side the fireplace.
Mars Plaisir sacrificed some of his own bundle to wipe down the wet
walls; but it was all in vain.  During the silence, while his master was
meditating at the window, the melancholy sound of falling water--drip,
drip--plash, plash--was heard all around, within and without the cell.
When he had wiped down the walls, from the door in the corner round to
the door again, the place from which he had set out was as wet as ever,
and his straw was spoiled.  He angrily kicked the wet straw into the
fire; the consequence of which was that the cell was filled with smoke,
almost to suffocation.

"Ask for more," said Toussaint.

Mars Plaisir shouted, knocked at the door, and used every endeavour to
make himself heard; but in vain.  No one came.

"Take some of mine," said Toussaint.  "No one can lie on this floor."

Mars Plaisir shook his head.  He proceeded mournfully to spread the
other heap of straw; but a large flake of ice had fallen upon it from
the corner of the walls, and it was as wet as that which he had burned.

This was too much for poor Mars Plaisir.  He looked upon his master, now
spreading his thin hands over the fire, his furrowed face now and then
lighted up by the blaze which sprang fitfully through the smoke--he
thought of the hall of audience at Port-au-Prince, of the gardens at
Pongaudin, of the Place d'Armes at Cap Francais on review-days, of the
military journeys and official fetes of the Commander-in-Chief, and he
looked upon him now.  He burst into tears as uncontrollable as his
laughter had been before.  Peeling his master's hand upon his shoulder,
he considered it necessary to give a reason for his grief, and sobbed
out--

"They treat your Excellency as if your Excellency were nobody.  They
give your Excellency no title.  They will not even call you General."

Toussaint laughed at this cause of grief in such a place; but Mars
Plaisir insisted upon it.

"How would they like it themselves?  What would the First Consul himself
say if he were a prisoner, and his gaolers refused him his titles?"

"I do not suppose him to be a man of so narrow a heart, and so low a
soul, as that such a trifle could annoy him.  Cheer up, if that be all."

Mars Plaisir was far from thinking this all; but his tears and sobs
choked him in the midst of his complaints.  Toussaint turned again to
the fire, and presently began to sing one of the most familiar songs of
Saint Domingo.  He had not sung a stanza before, as he had anticipated,
his servant joined in, rising from his attitude of despair, and singing
with as much animation as if he had been on the Haut-du-Cap.  This was
soon put a stop to by a sentinel, who knocked at the door to command
silence.

"They cannot hear us if we want dry straw," said Mars Plaisir,
passionately: "and yet we cannot raise a note but they must stop us."

"We are caged birds; and you know Denis's canary might sing only when it
pleased his master.  Have I not seen even you cover up the cage?  But
sing--sing softly, and they may not hear you."

When supper was brought, fresh straw and more firewood were granted.  At
his master's bidding, and under the influence of these comforts, Mars
Plaisir composed himself to sleep.

Toussaint sat long beside the fire.  He could not have slept.  The weeks
that had passed since he left Saint Domingo had not yet reconciled his
ear to the silence of a European night.  At sea, the dash of the waves
against the ship's side had lulled him to rest.  Since he had landed, he
had slept little, partly from privation of exercise, partly from the
action of over-busy thoughts; but also, in part, from the absence of
that hum of life which, to the natives of the tropics, is the incentive
to sleep and its accompaniment.  Here, there was but the crackle of the
burning wood, and the plashing of water, renewed from minute to minute,
till it became a fearful doubt--a passing doubt, but very fearful--
whether his ear could become accustomed to the dreary sound, or whether
his self-command was to be overthrown by so small an agency as this.
From such a question he turned, by an effort, to consider other evils of
his condition.  It was a cruel aggravation of his sufferings to have his
servant shut up with him.  It imposed upon him some duties, it was true;
and was, in so far, a good; but it also imposed most painful restraints.
He had a strong persuasion that Bonaparte had not given up the pursuit
of his supposed treasures, or the hope of mastering all his designs,
real or imaginary; and he suspected that Mars Plaisir would be left long
enough with him to receive the overflowings of his confidence (so hard
to restrain in such circumstances as theirs!) and would then be tampered
with by the agents of the First Consul.  What was the nature and
efficacy of their system of cross-examination, he knew; and he knew how
nothing but ignorance could preserve poor Mars Plaisir from treachery.
Here, therefore--here, in this cell, without resource, without
companionship, without solace of any kind, it would be necessary,
perhaps, through long months, to set a watch upon his lips, as strict as
when he dined with the French Commissaries at Government-House, or when
he was weighing the Report of the Central Assembly, regarding a Colonial
constitution.  For the reserve which his function had imposed upon him
at home, he had been repaid by a thousand enjoyments.  Now, no more
sympathy, no more ministering from his family!--no more could he open to
Margot his glory in Placide, his hopes from Denis, his cares for his
other children, to uphold them under a pressure of influences which were
too strong for them; no more could he look upon the friendly face of
Henri, and unbosom himself to him in sun or shade; no more could he look
upon the results of his labours in the merchant fleets on the sea, and
the harvests burdening the plains!  No more could happy voices, from a
thousand homes, come to him in blessing and in joy!  No more music, no
more sunshine, no more fragrance; no more certainty, either, that others
were now enjoying what he had parted with for ever!  Not only might he
never hear what had ensued upon the "truce till August," but he must
carefully conceal his anxiety to hear--his belief that there were such
tidings to be told.  In the presence of Mars Plaisir, he could scarcely
even think of that which lay heaviest at his heart--of what Henri had
done, in consequence of his abduction--of his poor oppressed blacks--
whether they had sunk under the blow for the time, and so delayed the
arrival of that freedom which they must at length achieve; or whether
they had risen, like a multitudinous family of bereaved children, to
work out the designs of the father who had been snatched from them.  Of
all this there could be no speech (scarcely a speculation in his secret
soul) in the presence of one who must, if he heard, almost necessarily
become a traitor.  And then his family!  From them he had vanished; and
he must live as if they had vanished from his very memory.  They were,
doubtless, all eye, all ear: for ever watching to know what had become
of him.  For their personal safety, now that he was helpless, he trusted
there was little cause for fear; but what peace of mind could they
enjoy, while in ignorance of his fate?  He fancied them imploring of
their guardians tidings of him, in vain; questioning the four winds for
whispers of his retreat; pacing every cemetery for a grave that might be
his; gazing up at the loopholes of every prison, with a fear that he
might be there; keeping awake at midnight, for the chance of a visit
from his injured spirit; or seeking sleep, in the dim hope that he might
be revealed to them in a dream.  And all this must be but a dim dream to
him, except in such an hour as this--a chance hour when no eye was upon
him!  The reconciling process was slow--but it was no less sure than
usual.

"Be it so!" was, as usual, his conclusion--"Be it so! for as long as
Heaven pleases--though that cannot be long.  The one consolation of
being buried alive, soul or body--or both, as in this case--is, that
release is sure and near.  This poor fellow's spirit will die within
him, and his body will then be let out--the consummation most necessary
for him.  And my body, already failing, will soon die, and my work be
done.  To die, and to die thus, is part of my work; and I will do it as
willingly as in the field.  Hundreds, thousands of my race have died for
slavery, cooped up, pining, suffocated in slave-ships, in the wastes of
the sea.  Hundreds and thousands have thus died, without knowing the end
for which they perished.  What is it, then, for one to die of cold in
the wastes of the mountains, for freedom, and knowing that freedom is
the end of his life and his death?  What is it?  If I groan, if I
shrink, may my race curse me, and my God cast me out!"

A warmer glow than the dying embers could give passed through his frame;
and he presently slept, basking till morning in dreams of his sunny
home.



CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

HALF FREE.

Autumn faded, and the long winter of the Jura came on, without bringing
changes of any importance to the prisoners--unless it were that, in
addition to the wood-fire, which scarcely kept up the warmth of life in
their bodies, they were allowed a stove.  This indulgence was not in
answer to any request of theirs.  Toussaint early discovered that Rubaut
would grant nothing that was asked for, but liked to bestow a favour
spontaneously, now and then.  This was a clear piece of instruction; by
which, however, Mars Plaisir was slow to profit.  Notwithstanding his
master's explanations and commands, and his own promises, fervently
given when they were alone, he could never see the Commandant without
pouting out all his complaints, and asking for everything relating to
external comfort that his master had been accustomed to at Pongaudin.  A
stove, not being among the articles of furniture there, was not asked
for; and thus this one comfort was not intercepted by being named.
Books were another.  Mars Plaisir had been taught to read and write in
one of the public schools in the island; but his tastes did not lie in
the direction of literature; and he rarely remembered that he possessed
the accomplishment of being able to read, except when circumstances
called upon him to boast of his country and his race.  Books were
therefore brought, two at a time, with the Commandant's compliments; two
at a time, for the rule of treating the prisoners as equals was exactly
observed.  This civility brought great comfort to Toussaint--the
greatest except solitude.  He always chose to suppose that Mars Plaisir
was reading when he held a book: and he put a book into his hands daily
when he opened his own.  Many an hour did he thus obtain for the
indulgence of his meditations; and while his servant was wondering how
he could see to read by the dim light which came in at the window--more
dim each day, as the snow-heap there rose higher--or by the fitful flame
of the fire, his thoughts were far away, beating about amidst the
struggle then probably going on in Saint Domingo; or exploring, with
wonder and sorrow, the narrow and darkened passages of that mind which
he had long taken to be the companion of his own; or springing forward
into the future, and reposing in serene faith on the condition of his
people when, at length, they should possess their own souls, and have
learned to use their human privileges.  Many a time did Mars Plaisir,
looking off from a volume of the Philosophical Dictionary, which yielded
no amusement to him, watch the bright smile on his master's face, and
suppose it owing to the jokes in the Racine he held, when that smile
arose from pictures formed within of the future senates, schools,
courts, and virtuous homes, in which his dusky brethren would hereafter
be exercising and securing their lights.  Not ungratefully did he use
his books the while.  He read and enjoyed; but his greatest obligations
to them were for the suggestions they afforded, the guidance they
offered to his thoughts to regions amidst which his prison and his
sufferings were forgotten.

At times, the servant so far broke through his habitual deference for
his master as to fling down his book upon the table, and then beg
pardon, saying that they should both go mad if they did not make some
noise.  When he saw the snow falling perpetually, noiseless as the dew,
he longed for the sheeted rains of his own winter, splashing as if to
drown the land.  Here, there was only the eternal drip, drip, which his
ear was weary of months ago.

"Cannot you fancy it rain-drops falling from a palm-leaf?  Shut your
eyes and try," said his master.

It would not do.  Mars Plaisir complained that the Commandant had
promised that this drip should cease when the frosts of winter came.

"So it might, but for our stove.  But then our ears would have been
frozen up, too.  We should have been underground by this time--which
they say we are not now, though it is hard, sometimes to believe them.
However, we shall hear something by-and-by that will drown the drip.
Among these mountains, there must be thunder.  In the summer, Mars
Plaisir, we may hear thunder."

"In the summer!" exclaimed Mars Plaisir, covering his face with his
hands.

"That is, not you, but I.  I hope they will let you out long before the
summer."

"Does your Excellency hope so?" cried Mars Plaisir, springing to his
feet.

"Certainly, my poor fellow.  The happiest news I expect ever to hear is
that you are to be released: and this news I do expect to hear.  They
will not let you go home, to tell where I am; but they will take you out
of this place."

"Oh, your Excellency! if you think so, would your Excellency be pleased
to speak for me--to ask the Commandant to let me out?  If you will tell
him that my rheumatism will not let me sleep--I do not want to go home--
I do not want to leave your Excellency, except for your Excellency's
good.  I would say all I could for you, and kneel to the First Consul;
and, if they would not set you free, I would--" Here his voice faltered,
but he spoke the words--"I would come back into your Excellency's
service in the summer--when I had got cured of my rheumatism.  If you
would speak a word to the Commandant!"

"I would, if I were not sure of injuring you by doing so.  Do you not
see that nothing is to be granted us that we ask for?  Speak not another
word of liberty, and you may have it.  Ask for it, and you are here for
life--or for my life.  Remember!"

Mars Plaisir stood deep in thought.

"You have never asked for your liberty?" said his master.  "No.  I knew
that, for my sake, you had not.  Has no one ever mentioned liberty to
you?  I understand," he continued, seeing an expression of confusion in
the poor fellow's face.  "Do not tell me anything; only hear me.  If
freedom should be offered to you, take it.  It is my wish--it is my
command.  Is there more wood?  None but this?"

"None but this damp wood that chokes us with smoke.  They send us the
worst wood--the green, damp wood that the poorest of the whites in the
castle will not use," cried Mars Plaisir, striving to work off his
emotions in a fit of passion.  He kicked the unpromising log into the
fireplace as he exclaimed--

"They think the worst of everything good enough for us, because we are
blacks.  Oh! oh!"  Here his wrath was aggravated by a twinge of
rheumatism.  "They think anything good enough for blacks."

"Let them think so," said his master, kindly.  "God does not.  God did
not think so when He gave us the soil of Africa, and the sun of Saint
Domingo.  When he planted the gardens of the world with palms, it was
for the blacks.  When He spread the wide shade of the banyan, He made a
tent for the blacks.  When He filled the air with the scent of the
cinnamon and the cacao, was it not for the blacks to enjoy the
fragrance?  Has He not given them music?  Has he not given them love and
a home?  What has He not given them?  Let the whites think of us as they
will!  They shall be welcome to a share of what God gave the blacks,
though they return us nothing better than wet wood, to warm us among
their snows."

"It is true," said Mars Plaisir, his complacency completely
restored--"God thinks nothing too good for the blacks.  I will tell the
First Consul so, if--"

"The First Consul would rather hear something else from you: and you
know, Mars Plaisir, the whites laugh at us for our boastings.  However,
tell the First Consul what you will."

Again was Mars Plaisir silenced, and his countenance confused.
Perpetually, from this hour did he drop words which showed an
expectation of seeing the First Consul--words which were never noticed
by his master.  Every time that the increasing weakness and pain under
which Toussaint suffered forced themselves on his servant's
observation--whenever the skeleton hands were rubbed in his own, to
relieve cramps and restore warmth; or the friendly office was returned,
in spite of the shame and confusion of the servant at finding himself
thus served--with every drift of snow which blocked up the window--and
every relaxation of frost, which only increased the worse evil of the
damp--Mars Plaisir avowed or muttered the persuasive things he would say
to the First Consul.

Toussaint felt too much sympathy to indulge in much contempt for his
companion.  He, too, found it hard to be tortured with cramps, and wrung
by spasms--to enjoy no respite from vexations of body and spirit.  He,
too, found the passage to the grave weary and dreary.  And, as for an
interview with Bonaparte, for how long had this been his first desire!
How distinctly had it of late been the reserve of his hope!  Reminding
himself, too, of the effects on the wretched of an indefinite hope, such
as the unsettled mind and manners of his servant convinced him, more and
more, had been held out--he could not, in the very midst of scenes of
increasing folly and passion, despise poor Mars Plaisir.  He mistrusted
him, however, and with a more irksome mistrust continually, while he
became aware that Mars Plaisir was in the habit of lamenting Saint
Domingo chiefly for the sake of naming Christophe and Dessalines, the
companies in the mornes, the fever among the whites, and whatever might
be most likely to draw his master into conversation on the hopes and
resources of the blacks.  He became more and more convinced that the
weakness of his companion was practised upon, and possibly his
attachment to his master, by promises of good to both, on condition of
information furnished.  He was nearly certain that he had once heard the
door of the cell closed gently, as he was beginning to awake, in the
middle of the night; and he was quite sure that he one day saw Mars
Plaisir burn a note, as he replenished the fire, while he thought his
master was busy reading.  Not even these mysterious proceedings could
make Toussaint feel anything worse than sorrowing pity for Mars Plaisir.

The Commandant had ceased to visit his prisoners.  During the rest of
the winter, he never came.  He sent books occasionally, but less
frequently.  The supply of firewood was gradually diminished; and so was
the quantity of food.  The ailments of the prisoners were aggravated,
from day-to-day; and if the Commandant had favoured them with his
presence, he would have believed that he saw two dusky shadows amidst
the gloom of their cell, rather than men.

One morning, Toussaint awoke, slowly and with difficulty, from a sleep
which appeared to have been strangely sound for one who could not move a
limb without pain, and who rarely, therefore, slept for many minutes
together.  It must have been strangely long, too; for the light was as
strong as it had ever been at noon in this dim cell.  Before he rose,
Toussaint felt that there was sunshine in the air; and the thought that
spring was come, sent a gleam of pleasure through his spirit.  It was
true enough.  As he stood before the window, something like a shadow
might be seen on the floor.  No sky--not a shred the breadth of his
hand--was to be seen.  For six months past, he had behold neither cloud,
nor star, nor the flight of a bird.  But, casting a glance up to the
perpendicular rock opposite, he saw that it faintly reflected sunshine.
He saw, moreover, something white moving--some living creature upon this
rock.  It was a young kid, standing upon a point or ledge imperceptible
below--by its action, browsing upon some vegetation which could not be
seen so far-off.

"Mars Plaisir!  Mars Plaisir!" cried Toussaint.  "Spring is come!  The
world is alive again, even here.  Mars Plaisir!"  There was no answer.

"He has slept deeply and long, like myself," said he, going, however,
into the darker corner of the cell where Mars Plaisir's bed was laid.
The straw was there, but no one was on it.  The stove was warm, but
there was no fire in the fireplace.  The small chest allowed for the
prisoners' clothes was gone--everything was gone but the two volumes in
which they had been reading the night before.  Toussaint shook these
books, to see if any note had been hidden in them.  He explored them at
the window, to discover any word of farewell that might be written on
blank leaf or margin.  There was none there; nor any scrap of paper
hidden in the straw, or dropped upon the floor.  Mars Plaisir was gone,
and had left no token.

"They drugged me--hence my long sleep," thought Toussaint.  "They knew
the poor fellow's weakness, and feared his saying too much, when it came
to parting.  I hope they will treat him well, for (thanks to my care for
him!) he never betrayed me to them.  I treated him well in taking care
that he should not betray me to them, while they yet so far believed
that he might as to release him.  It is all well; and I am alone!  It is
almost like being in the free air.  I am almost as free as yonder kid on
the rock.  My wife! my children!  I may name you all now--name you in my
thoughts and in my song.  Placide! are you rousing the nations to ask
the tyrant where I am?  Henri! have you buried the dead whites yet in
Saint Domingo? and have your rains done weeping the treason of those
dead against freedom?  Let it be so, Henri!  Your rains have washed out
the blood of this treason; and your dews have brought forth the verdure
of your plains, to cover the graves of the guilty and the fallen.  Take
this lesson home, Henri!  Forget--not me, for you must remember me in
carrying on my work--but forget how you lost me.  Believe that I fell in
the mornes, and that you buried me there; believe this, rather than shed
one drop of blood for me.  Learn of God, not of Bonaparte, how to bless
our race.  Poison their souls no more with blood.  The sword and the
fever have done their work, and tamed your tyrants.  As for the rest,
act with God for our people!  Give them harvests to their hands; and
open the universe of knowledge before their eyes.  Give them rest and
stillness in the summer heats: and shelter them in virtuous and busy
homes from the sheeted rains.  It is enough that blood was the price of
freedom--a heavy price, which has been paid.  Let there be no such
barter for vengeance.  My children, hear me!  Wherever you are--in the
court of our tyrant, or on the wide sea, or on the mountain-top, where
the very storms cannot make themselves heard so high--yet let your
father's voice reach you from his living grave!  No vengeance!
Freedom--freedom to the last drop of blood in the veins of our race!
Let our island be left to the wild herds and the reptiles, rather than
be the habitation of slaves: but if you have established freedom there,
it is holy ground, and no vengeance must profane it.  If you love me and
my race, you must forgive my murderers.  Yes, murderers," he pursued in
thought, after dwelling a while on the images of home and familiar
faces, "murderers they already are, doubtless, in intent.  I should have
been sent hence long ago, but for the hope of reaching my counsels
through Mars Plaisir.  From the eyes of the world I have already
disappeared; and nothing hinders the riddance of me now.  Feeble as I
am, the waiting for death may yet be tedious.  If tedious for him who
has this day done with me, how tedious for me, who have done with him
and with all the world!--done with them, except as to the affections
with which one may look back upon them from the clear heights on the
other side of the dark valley.  That I should pine and shiver long in
the shadows of that valley would be tedious to him who drove me there
before my time, and to me.  He has never submitted to what is tedious,
and he will not now."

The door of the cell was here softly opened, a head showed itself, and
immediately disappeared.  Toussaint silently watched the kid, as it
moved from point to point on the face of the rock: and it was with some
sorrow that he at last saw it spring away.  Just then, Bellines entered
with the usual miserable breakfast.  Toussaint requested fire, to which
Bellines assented.  He then asked to have the window opened, that the
air of the spring morning might enter.  Bellines shrugged his shoulders,
and observed that the air of these March mornings was sharp.  The
prisoner persisted, however; and with the fresh air, there came in upon
him a fresh set of thoughts.  Calling Bellines back, he desired, in a
tone of authority, to see the Commandant.

It was strange to him--he wondered at himself on finding his mind filled
with a new enterprise--with the idea of making a last appeal to Rubaut
for freedom--an appeal to his justice, not to his clemency.  With the
chill breeze, there had entered the tinkle of the cow-bell, and the
voices of children singing.  These called up a vivid picture of the
valley, as he had seen it on entering his prison--the small green level,
the gushing stream, the sunny rock, the girl with her distaff, tending
the goats.  He thought he could show his title to, at least, a free
sight of the face of nature; and the impulse did not immediately die.
During the morning, he listened for footsteps without.  After some
hours, he smiled at his own hope, and nearly ceased to listen.  The face
of the rock grow dim; the wind rose, and sleet was driven in at the
window: so that he was compelled to use his stiff and aching limbs in
climbing up to shut it.  No one had remembered, or had chosen to make
his fire; and he was shivering, as in an ague fit, when, late in the
afternoon, Bellines brought in his second meal, and some fuel.

"The Commandant?"

"The Commandant is not in the castle.  He is absent to-day."

"Where?"

"They say the First Consul has business with him."

"With me rather," thought Toussaint.  He said aloud, "Then he is gone
with my servant?"

"May be so.  They went the same road; but that road leads to many
places."

"The road from Pontarlier?"

"Any road--all our roads here lead to many places," said Bellines, as he
went out.

"Poor Mars Plaisir!" thought Toussaint, as he carefully placed the wood
so as to tempt the feeble blaze.  "Our road has seemed the same for the
last eight months; but it leads to widely different points.  I rejoice
for him that his has parted off to-day; and for myself, though it shows
that I am near the end of mine.  Is it this soldier, with comrades, who
is to end me?  Or is it this supper, better drugged than that of last
night?  Or will they wait to see whether solitude will kill a busy,
ambitious Commander-in-Chief, as they think me?"



CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

FREE.

Day after day passed on, and the prisoner found no change in his
condition--as far, at least, as it depended on his gaolers.  He was more
ill as he became enveloped in the damps of the spring; and he grew more
and more sensible of the comfort of being alone.  Death by violence,
however, did not come.

He did not give over his concern for Mars Plaisir because he was glad of
his absence.  He inquired occasionally for the Commandant, hoping that,
if he could see Rubaut, he might learn whether his servant was still a
prisoner, and whether his release from his cell had been for freedom, or
for a worse lot than he had left behind.  There was no learning from
Bellines, however, whether the Commandant had returned to the fortress,
or who was his lieutenant, if he had not.  In the middle of April, the
doubt was settled by the appearance of Rubaut himself in the cell.  He
was civil--unusually so--but declared himself unable to give any
information about Mars Plaisir.  He had nothing more to do with his
prisoners when they were once taken out of his charge.  He had always
business enough upon his hands to prevent his occupying himself with
things and people that were gone by.  He had delivered Mars Plaisir into
proper care; and that was the last he knew of him.  The man was well at
that time--as well as usual, and pleased enough to be in the open air
again.  Rubaut could remember no more concerning him--in fact, had not
thought of him again, from that day to the present.

"And this is the kind of answer that you would give concerning me, if my
sons should arrive hither in search of me some days after my grave had
been closed?"

"Come, come! no foreboding!" said Rubaut.  "Foreboding is bad."

"If my sons should present themselves--" proceeded Toussaint--

"They will not come here--they cannot come here," interrupted Rubaut.
"No one knows that you are here, but some three or four who will never
tell."

"How," thought Toussaint, "have they secured Mars Plaisir, that he shall
never tell?"  For the poor man's sake, however, he would not ask this
aloud.

Rubaut continued: "The reason why we cannot have the pleasure of giving
you the range of the fortress is, that the First Consul thinks it
necessary to keep secret the place of your abode--for the good of the
colony, as he says.  With one of our own countrymen, this seclusion
might not be necessary, as the good people of the village could hardly
distinguish features from the distance at which they are; and they have
no telescopes--no idea of playing the spy upon us, as we can upon them.
They cannot distinguish features, so high up--"

"But they could complexion."

"Exactly so; and it might get abroad that some one of your colour was
here."

"And if it should get abroad, and some one of my sons, or my wife should
come, your answer would be that you remember nothing--that you cannot
charge your memory with persons and things that are gone by--that you
have had prisoners of all complexions--that some have lived and some
have died--and that you have something else to do than to remember what
became of each.  I hope, however, and (as it would be for the advantage
of the First Consul) I believe, that you would have the complaisance to
show them my grave."

"Come, come! no foreboding!  Foreboding is bad," repeated Rubaut.

Toussaint smiled, and said--

"What other employment do you afford me than that of looking into the
past and future, in order to avoid the present?  If, turning from the
sickening view which the past presents of the treachery of your race to
mine, of the abuse of my brotherly trust in him by which your ruler has
afflicted our hearts if, turning from this mournful past, I look the
other way, what do I see before me but the open grave?"

"You are out of spirits," said Rubaut, building up the fire.

"You wear well, however.  You must have been very strong in your best
days.  You wear extremely well."

"I still live; and that I do so is because the sun of my own climate,
and the strength of soul of my best days, shine and glow through me now,
quenching in part even these damps.  But I am old, and every day heaps
years on me.  However, I am as willing as you that my looking forward
should be for others than myself.  I might be able to forebode for
France, and for its ruler."

Rubaut folded his arms, and leaned, as if anxious to listen, against the
wall beside the fire; but it was so wet that he quickly shifted his
position; still, however, keeping his eyes fixed on his prisoner.

"And what would you forebode for France, and for her ruler?" he asked.

"That my country will never again be hers.  Her retribution is as sure
as her tyranny has been great.  She may send out fleet after fleet, each
bearing an army; but the spirit of freedom will be too strong for them
all.  Their bodies will poison the air, and choke the sea, and the names
of their commanders will, one after another, sink in disgrace, before
they will again make slaves of my people in Saint Domingo.  How stands
the name of Leclerc at this moment in France?"

"Leclerc is dead," said Rubaut; repenting, the next moment, that he had
said so much.  Toussaint saw this by his countenance, and inquired no
further.

"He is dead! and twenty thousand Frenchmen with him, who might at this
hour have been enjoying at home the natural wealth of my country, the
fruits of our industry.  The time was when I thought your ruler and I--
the ruler, in alliance with him, of my race in Saint Domingo--were
brothers in soul, as we were apparently in duty and in fortune.
Brothers in soul we were not, as it has been the heaviest grief of my
life to learn.  I spurn brotherhood of soul with one whose ambition has
been for himself.  Brothers in duty we were; and, if we should yet be
brothers in fortune--if he should fall into the hands of a strong foe--
But you are saying in your heart, `No foreboding!  Foreboding is bad!'"

Rubaut smiled, and said foreboding was only bad for the spirits; and the
First Consul's spirits were not likely to be affected by anything that
could be said at Joux.  To predict bad fortune for him was like looking
for the sun to be put out at noonday; it might pass the time, but would
not dim the sun.

"So was it said of me," replied the prisoner, "and with the more reason,
because I made no enemies.  My enemies have not been of my own making.
Your ruler is making enemies on every hand; and alas! for him if he
lives to meet the hour of retribution!  If he, like myself, should fall
into the power of a strong foe--if he should pass his remaining days
imprisoned on a rock, may he find more peace than I should dare look
for, if I had his soul!"

"There is not a braver man in Europe, or the Indies either, than the
First Consul."

"Brave towards foes without and sufferings to come.  But bravery gives
no help against enemies harboured within, and evils fixed in the past.
What will his bravery avail against the images of France corrupted, of
Europe outraged, of the blacks betrayed and oppressed--of the godlike
power which was put into his hands abused to the purposes of the devil!"

"But perhaps he would not view his affairs as you do."

"Then would his bravery avail him no better.  If he should be so blind
as to see nothing higher and better than his own acts, then will he see
no higher nor better hope than he has lost.  Then will he suffer and die
under the slow torment of personal mortifications and regrets."

"You say you are sinking under your reverses.  You say you are slowly
dying."

"I am.  I shall die of the sickening and pining of sense and limb--of
the wasting of bone and muscle.  Day by day is my eye more dim, and my
right arm more feeble.  But I have never complained of evils that the
bravery you speak of would not meet.  Have I ever said that you have
touched my soul?"

Rubaut saw the fire in his eye, glanced at his emaciated hand, and felt
that this was true.  He could bear the conversation no longer, now that
no disclosures that could serve the First Consul seemed likely to be
made.

"You are going?" said Toussaint.

"Yes.  I looked in to-day because I am about to leave the fortress for a
few days."

"If you see the First Consul, tell him what I have now said; and add
that if, like him, I had used my power for myself, he would have had a
power over me which he has not now.  I should not then have been here--
nay, you must hear me--I should not then have been here, crushed beneath
his hand; I should have been on the throne of Saint Domingo--flattered,
as he is, by assurances of my glory and security--but crushed by a
heavier weight than that of his hand; by his image, as that of one
betrayed in my infidelity to his country and nation.  Tell him this;
tell him that I perish willingly, if this consequence of my fidelity to
France may be a plea for justice to my race."

"How people have misrepresented you to me!" said Rubaut, bustling about
the cell, and opening the door to call Bellines.  "They told me you were
very silent--rarely spoke."

"That was true when my duty was to think," said Toussaint.  "To-day my
duty has been to speak.  Remember that yours, in fidelity to your ruler,
is to repeat to him what I say."

"More wood, Bellines," said Rubaut, going to the door, to give further
directions in a low voice.  Returning, he said, with some hurry of
manner, that, as he was to be absent for two or three days, he had sent
for such a supply of wood and flambeaux as might last some time.  More
books should also be brought.

"When shall we meet again?" asked Toussaint.

"I don't know.  Indeed I do not know," said the Commandant, looking at
his watch by the firelight.  His prisoner saw that his hands trembled,
and that he walked with some irresolution to the door.

"Au revoir!" said Toussaint.

Rubaut did not reply, but went out, leaving the door standing wide, and
apparently no one to guard it.

Toussaint's heart beat at the thought that this might give him one more
opportunity of being abroad in the daylight, perhaps in the sun!  He
rose to make the attempt; but he was exhausted by the conversation he
had held--the first for so long!  His aching limbs failed him; and he
sank down on his bed, from which he did not rise till long after
Bellines had laid down his loads, and left the place.

The prisoner rose, at length, to walk, as he did many times in the day,
from corner to corner of his cell.  At the first turn, by the door, he
struck his foot against something which he upset.  It was a pitcher of
water, which, with a loaf of bread, had been put in that unusual place.
The sight was as distinct in its signification as a yawning grave.  His
door was to open upon him no more.  He was not again to see a human
face.  The Commandant was to be absent awhile, and, on returning, to
find his prisoner dead.

He used all means that he could devise to ascertain whether it were
indeed so.  He called Bellines from the door, in the way which Bellines
had never failed to reply to since the departure of Mars Plaisir.
Bellines did not come.  He sang aloud, as he had never before been
allowed to sing unchecked, since he entered the fortress.  He now sang
unchecked.  The hour of the afternoon meal passed, and no one came.  The
evening closed, and no bolt had been drawn.  The case was clear.

The prisoner now and then felt a moment's surprise at experiencing so
little recoil from such a fate.  He was scarcely conscious even of
repugnance.  His tranquillity was doubtless owing, in part, to his
having long contemplated death in this place as certain; to life having
now little left to make its continuance desirable; and to his knowing
himself to be so reduced, that the struggle could not be very long.  But
he himself believed his composure to be owing to another cause than any
of these.

"He who appointed me to the work of such a life as mine," thought the
dying man, "is making its close easy to His servant.  I would willingly
have suffered to the extremity of His will: but my work is done; men's
eyes are no longer upon me; I am alone with Him; and He is pleased to
let me enter already upon my everlasting peace.  If Father Laxabon were
here, would he now say, as he has often said, and as most men say, that,
looking back upon life from its close, it appears short as the time of
the early rains?  Instead of this, how long appear the sixty years that
I have lived!  How long, how weary now teems the life when I was a
slave--though much was done, and it was the schooling of my soul for the
work preparing for my hand.  My Margot! my children! how quietly did we
then live, as if no change were ever to come, and we were to sit before
our door at Breda every evening, till death should remove us, one by
one!  While I was composing my soul to patience by thought and by
reading, how little did I dream that I was so becoming prepared to free
my race, to reign, and then to die of cold and hunger, such as the
meanest slave never knows!  Then the next eight years of toil--they seem
longer than all that went before.  Doubtless they were lengthened to me,
to make my weak powers equal to the greatness of my task; for every day
of conducting war, and making laws, appeared to me stretched out into a
year.  These late seasons of reverse have passed over more rapidly, for
their suffering has been less.  While all, even to Henri, have pitied me
during these latter years, they knew not that I was recovering the peace
which I shall now no more lose.  It is true that I erred, according to
the common estimate of affairs, in not making myself a king, and
separating my country from France, as France herself is compelling her
to separate at last.  It is true, I might now have been reigning there,
instead of dying here; and, what is more worthy of meditation, my people
might now have been laying aside their arms, and beginning a long career
of peace.  It might possibly have been so; but at what cost!  Their
career of freedom (if freedom it could then have been called) would have
begun in treason and in murder; and the stain would have polluted my
race for ever.  Now, they will have freedom still--they cannot but have
it, though it is delayed.  And upon this freedom will rest the blessing
of Heaven.  We have not fought for dominion, nor for plunder; nor, as
far as I could govern the passions of men, for revenge.  We began our
career of freedom in fidelity, in obedience, and in reverence towards
the whites; and therefore may we take to ourselves the blessing of Him
who made us to be free, and demands that we be so with clean hands and a
pure heart.  Therefore will the freedom of Saint Domingo be but the
beginning of freedom to the negro race.  Therefore may we hope that in
this race will the spirit of Christianity appear more fully than it has
yet shown itself among the proud whites--show itself in its gentleness,
its fidelity, its disinterestedness, and its simple trust.  The proud
whites may scorn this hope, and point to the ignorance and the passions
of my people, and say, `Is this your exhibition of the spirit of the
Gospel?'  But not for this will we give up our hope.  This ignorance,
these passions, are natural to all men, and are in us aggravated and
protracted by our slavery.  Remove them by the discipline and the
stimulus of freedom, begun in obedience to God and fidelity to men, and
there remain the love that embraces all--the meek faith that can bear to
be betrayed, but is ashamed to doubt--the generosity that can forgive
offences seventy-and-seven times renewed--the simple, open, joyous
spirit which marks such as are of the kingdom of heaven.  Lord!  I thank
Thee that Thou hast made me the servant of this race!"

Never, during the years of his lowliness, or the days of his grandeur,
had Toussaint spent a brighter hour than now, while the spirit of
prophecy (twin-angel with death) visited him, and showed him the realms
of mind which were opening before his race--that countless host whose
van he had himself led to the confines.  This spirit whispered something
of the immortality of his own name, hidden, lost as he was in his last
hours.

"Be it so!" thought he, "if my name can excite any to devotedness, or
give to any the pleasure of being grateful.  If my name live, the
goodness of those who name it will be its life; for my true self-will
not be in it.  No one will the more know the real Toussaint.  The
weakness that was in me when I felt most strong, the reluctance when I
appeared most ready, the acts of sin from which I was saved by accident
alone, the divine constraint of circumstances to which my best deeds
were owing--these things are between me and my God.  If my name and my
life are to be of use, I thank God that they exist; but this outward
existence of them is nothing between Him and me.  To me henceforward
they no more belong than the name of Epaminondas, or the life of Tell.
Man stands naked on the brink of the grave, his name stripped from him,
and his deeds laid down as the property of the society he leaves behind.
Let the name and deeds I now leave behind be a pride to generations yet
to come--a more innocent pride than they have sometimes, alas! been to
me.  I have done with them."

Toussaint had often known what hunger was--in the mornes he had endured
it almost to extremity.  He now expected to suffer less from it than
then, from being able to yield to the faintness and drowsiness which had
then to be resisted.  From time to time during his meditations, he felt
its sensations visiting him, and felt them without fear or regret.  He
had eaten his loaf when first hungry, and had watched through the first
night, hoping to sleep his long sleep the sooner, when his fire should
at length be burned out.  During the day, some faint sounds reached him
from the valley--some tokens of the existence of men.  During the two
last nights of his life, his ear was kept awake only by the dropping of
water--the old familiar sound--and the occasional stir of the brands
upon the hearth.  About midnight of the second night, he found he could
sit up no longer.  With trembling hands he laid on such pieces of wood
as he could lift, lighted another flambeau, and lay down on his straw.
He raised himself but once, hastily and dizzily in the dawn (dawn to
him, but sunrise abroad).  His ear had been reached by the song of the
young goatherds, as they led their flock abroad into another valley.
The prisoner had dreamed that it was his boy Denis, singing in the
piazza at Pongaudin.  As his dim eye recognised the place, by the
flicker of the expiring flambeau, he smiled at his delusion, and sank
back to sleep again.

The Commandant was absent three days.  On his return, he summoned
Bellines, and said, in the presence of several soldiers--

"How is the prisoner there?" pointing in the direction of Toussaint's
cell.

"He has been very quiet this morning, sir."

"Very quiet?  Do you suppose he is ill?"

"He was as well as usual the last time I went to him."

"He has had plenty of everything, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes, sir.  Wood, candle, food, water--everything."

"Very well.  Get lights, and I will visit him."

Lights were brought.  A boy, who carried a lantern, shivered as he saw
how ghastly Bellines' face looked in the yellow gleam, in the dark vault
on the way to the cell, and was not sorry to be told to stay behind,
till called to light the Commandant back again.

"Have you heard anything?" asked Rubaut of the soldier, in a low voice.

"Not for many hours.  There was a call or two, and some singing, just
after you went; but nothing since."

"Hush!  Listen!"

They listened motionless for some time; but nothing was heard but the
everlasting plash, which went on all around them.

"Unbar the door, Bellines."

He did so, and held the door wide for the Commandant to enter.  Rubaut
stalked in, and straight up to the straw bed.  He called the prisoner in
a somewhat agitated voice, felt the hand, raised the head, and declared
that he was gone.  The candle was burned completely out.  Rubaut turned
to the hearth, carefully stirred the ashes, blew among them, and raised
a spark.

"You observe," he said to Bellines; "his fire was burning when we found
him."

"Yes, sir."

"There is more wood and more candle?"

"Yes, sir; the wood in this corner, and the candle on the table--just
under your hand, sir."

"Oh, ay, here.  Put on some wood, and blow up a flame.  Observe, we
found his fire burning."

"Yes, sir."

They soon re-appeared in the courtyard, and announced the death of the
prisoner.  Rubaut ordered a messenger to be in readiness to ride to
Pontarlier, by the time he should have written a letter.

"We must have the physicians from Pontarlier," observed the Commandant,
aloud, "to examine the deceased, and declare what he died of.  The old
man has not been well for some time past.  I have no doubt the
physicians will find that he died of apoplexy, or something of the
kind."

"No wonder, poor soul!" said a sutler's wife to another woman.

"No wonder, indeed," replied the other.  "My husband died of the heat in
Saint Domingo; and they took this poor man (don't tell it, but he was a
black; I got a sight of him, and he came from Saint Domingo, you may
depend upon it)--they took him out of all that heat, and put him into
that cold, damp place there!  No wonder he is dead."

"Well, I never knew we had a black here!"

"Don't say I told you, then."

"I have no doubt--yes, we found his fire burning," said Bellines to the
inquirers round him.  "They will find it apoplexy, or some such thing, I
have no doubt of it."

And so they did, to the entire satisfaction of the First Consul.

Yet it was long before the inquiring world knew with certainty what had
become of Toussaint L'Ouverture.



APPENDIX.

Those who feel interest enough in the extraordinary fortunes of
Toussaint L'Ouverture to inquire concerning him from the Biographical
Dictionaries and Popular Histories of the day, will find in them all the
same brief and peremptory decision concerning his character.  They all
pronounce him to have been a man of wonderful sagacity, endowed with a
native genius for both war and government; but savage in warfare;
hypocritical in religion--using piety as a political mask; and, in all
his affairs, the very prince of dissemblers.  It is true that this
account consists neither with the facts of his life, the opinions of the
people he delivered, nor the state documents of the island he governed.
Yet it is easy to account for.  The first notices of him were French,
reported by the discomfited invaders of Saint Domingo to writers imbued
with the philosophy of the days of the Revolution; and later accounts
are copies of these earlier ones.  From the time when my attention was
first fixed on this hero, I have been struck with the inconsistencies
contained in all reports of his character which ascribe to him cruelty
and hypocrisy; and, after a long and careful comparison of such views
with his words and deeds, with the evidence obtainable from Saint
Domingo, and with the temper of his times in France, I have arrived at
the conclusion that his character was, in sober truth, such as I have
endeavoured to represent it in the foregoing work.

I do not mean to say that I am the first who has formed an opinion that
Toussaint was an honest, a religious, and a mild and merciful man.  In
an article in the _Quarterly Review_ (Number seventeen) on the "Past and
Present State of Hayti," so interesting an account is given of the great
negro, as to cause some wonder that no one has till now been moved by it
to present the facts of his life in the form of an historical novel.  In
that article it is justly observed that the _onus_ rests with those who
accuse Toussaint of hypocrisy to prove their allegation by facts.  I
would say the same of the other charge, of cruelty.  Meanwhile, I
disbelieve both charges, for these reasons among others:--

The wars of Saint Domingo were conducted in a most barbarous spirit
before the time of Toussaint's acquisition of power, and after his
abduction.  During the interval, the whole weight of his influence was
given to curb the ferocity of both parties.  He pardoned his personal
enemies (as in the instance of the mulattoes in the church), and he
punished in his followers, as the most unpardonable offence they could
commit, any infringement of his rule of "No Retaliation."

When it is considered that the cruelties perpetrated in the rising of
1791, and renewed after the fall of Toussaint, were invented by the
whites, and copied by the negroes (who were wont to imitate their
masters in all they did), it is no small evidence of L'Ouverture's
magnanimity that he conceived, illustrated, and enforced, in such times,
such a principle as that of No Retaliation.

All the accounts of him agree that, from his earliest childhood, he was
distinguished by a tenderness of nature which would not let him hurt a
fly.  He attached to himself the cattle and horses which were under his
charge when a boy, to a degree which made him famous in a region where
cruelty to animals at the hands of slaves was almost universal.  A man
who lived till fifty, remarkable for a singular gentleness and
placability, ought not to be believed sanguinary from that time forward,
on the strength of the unsupported charges of his disappointed enemies.

Piety was also his undisputed early characteristic.  A slave bringing to
the subject of religion the aptitude of the negro nature, early treated
with kindness by a priest, evincing the spirit of piety from his infant
years, finding in it the consolations required by a life of slavery, and
guided by it in a course of the strictest domestic morality, while
surrounded by licentiousness, _may_ well be supposed sincere in his
religion, under a change of circumstances occurring after he was fifty
years of age.  The imputation of hypocrisy is not, however, much to be
wondered at when it is considered that, at the time when the first
notices of Toussaint were written at Paris, it was the fashion there to
believe that no wise man could be sincerely religions.

As for the charge of general and habitual dissimulation, it can only be
said that while no proof of the assertion is offered, there is evidence,
in all the anecdotes preserved of him, of absolute frankness and
simplicity.  I rather think that it was the incredible extent of his
simplicity which gave rise to the belief that it was assumed, in order
to hide cunning.  The _Quarterly Review_ quotes an anecdote thoroughly
characteristic of the man, which is not introduced into my story,
because, in the abundance of my materials, I found it necessary to avoid
altogether the history of the English transactions in Saint Domingo.  It
was only by confining my narrative to the relations between Toussaint
and France that I could keep my tale within limits, and preserve the
clearness of the representation.  There are circumstances, however, in
his intercourse with the British, as honourable to Toussaint's character
as any that I have related; and among them is the following, which I
quote from the _Quarterly Review_.

"General Maitland, previous to the disembarkation of the troops,
returned the visit at Toussaint's camp; and such was his confidence in
the integrity of his character, that he proceeded through a considerable
extent of country, full of armed negroes, with only three attendants.
Roume, the French Commissary, wrote a letter to Toussaint, on this
occasion, advising him to seize his guest, as an act of duty to the
republic: on the route, General Maitland was secretly informed of
Bourne's treachery; but, in full reliance on the honour of Toussaint, he
determined to proceed.  On arriving at head-quarters, he was desired to
wait.  It was some time before Toussaint made his appearance; at length,
however, he entered the room with two open letters in his hand.  `There,
General,' said he, `before we talk together, read these.  One is a
letter from the French Commissary--the other is my answer.  I could not
see you till I had written my reply, that you might be satisfied how
safe you were with me, and how incapable I am of baseness.'"--_Quarterly
Review_, volume twenty-one, page 442.

The charge of personal ambition is, above all, contradicted by facts.
If anything is clear in Toussaint's history, it is that his ruin was
owing to his loyalty to France, his misplaced trust in Napoleon, and his
want of personal ambition.  He did not, as he might have done, make
himself a sovereign when France was wholly occupied with European
warfare.  He did not, as he might have done, prepare his people to
resist the power of the mother-country, when she should at length be at
liberty to reclaim the colony.  He sent away the French commissaries
only when, by their ignorance and incompetency, they imperilled the
peace and safety of the colony.  He cherished the love of the
mother-country in the hearts of the negroes, to the very last moment--
till the armament which came to re-establish slavery appeared on the
shores--till it was too late to offer that resistance which would have
made him a king.  Christophe's view of this part of his conduct is given
in a manifesto, dated in the eleventh year of the Independence of
Hayti:--

"Toussaint L'Ouverture, under his paternal administration, had
reinstated, in full force, law, morals, religion, education, and
industry.  Agriculture and commerce were flourishing.  He favoured the
white colonists, particularly the planters.  Indeed, his attentions and
partialities had been carried to such a length, that he was loudly
blamed for entertaining more affection for them than for those of his
own colour.  Nor was this reproach without foundation; for, a few months
before the arrival of the French, he sacrificed his own nephew, General
Moyse, who had disregarded the orders he had given for the protection of
the colonists.  That act of the Governor, added to the great confidence
he had placed in the French authorities, was the principal cause of the
feeble resistance the French encountered in Hayti.  Indeed, his
confidence in these authorities was such, that he had discharged the
greater part of the regular troops, and sent them back to the tillage of
the soil."--_Haytian papers_, page 158.

Such conduct is a sufficient answer to the allegation that Toussaint was
actuated by a selfish ambition, cunning in its aims, and cruel in its
use of means.

Some light is thrown upon the character of his mind by the record of the
books he studied while yet a slave.  Rainsford gives a list, which does
not pretend to be complete, but which is valuable as far as it goes.  It
appears that in his years of comparative leisure he was completely
engrossed by one book at a time, reading it at all spare moments,
meditating its contents while in the field, and quoting it in
conversation for weeks together.  One of the first authors whose works
thus entirely possessed him was Raynal: afterwards, Epictetus, in a
French translation; then others, as follows:--

Scriptores de Re Militari.

Caesar's Commentaries.  French translation, by De Crisse.

Des Claison's History of Alexander and Caesar.

D'Orleans' History of Revolutions in England and Spain.

Marshal Saxe's Military Reveries.

Guischard's Military Memoirs of the Greeks and Romans.

Herodotus.

Le Bean's Memoirs of the Academy of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres.

Lloyd's Military and Political Memoirs.

English Socrates, Plutarch, Cornelius Nepos, etcetera, etcetera.

Great mystery hangs over the tale of Toussaint's imprisonment and death.
It appears that he was confined in the Temple only as long as Napoleon
had hopes of extorting from him information about the treasures,
absurdly reported to have been buried by him in the mornes [Note 1],
under circumstances of atrocious cruelty.  It has been suggested that
torture was employed by Bonaparte's aide, Caffarelli, to procure the
desired confession; but I do not know that the conjecture is founded on
any evidence.

As to the precise mode of L'Ouverture's death, there is no certainty.
The only point on which all authorities agree is, that he was
deliberately murdered; but whether by mere confinement in a cell whose
floor was covered with water, and the walls with ice (a confinement
necessarily fatal to a negro), or by poison, or by starvation in
conjunction with disease, may perhaps never be known.  The report which
is, I believe, the most generally believed in France is that which I
have adopted--that the Commandant, when his prisoner was extremely ill,
left the fortress for two or three days, with the key of Toussaint's
cell in his pocket; that, on his return, he found his prisoner dead; and
that he summoned physicians from Pontarlier, who examined the body, and
pronounced a serious apoplexy to be the cause of death.  It so happened
that I was able, in the spring of last year, to make some inquiry upon
the spot; the result of which I will relate.

I was travelling in Switzerland with a party of friends, with whom I had
one day discussed the fortunes and character of Toussaint.  I had then
no settled purpose of writing about him, but was strongly urged to it by
my companions.  On the morning of the 15th of May, when we were drawing
near Payerne from Freyburg, on our way to Lausanne, I remembered and
mentioned that we were not very far from the fortress of Joux, where
Toussaint's bones lay.  My party were all eager that I should visit it.
There were difficulties in the way of the scheme--the chief of which was
that our passports were not so signed as to enable us to enter France;
and the nearest place where the necessary signature could be obtained
was Berne, which we had left behind us the preceding day.  I had,
however, very fortunately a Secretary of State's passport, besides the
Prussian Consul's; and this second passport, made out for myself and a
_femme-de-chambre_, had been signed by the French Minister in London.
One of my kind companions offered to cross the frontier with me, as my
_femme-de-chambre_, and to help me in obtaining access to the prison of
Toussaint; an offer I was very thankful to accept.  At Payerne, we
separated ourselves and a very small portion of luggage from our party,
whom we promised to overtake at Lausanne in two or three days.  We
engaged for the trip a double _char-a-banc_, with two stout little
horses, and a _brave homme_ of a driver, as our courteous landlady at
Payerne assured us.  Passing through Yverdun, we reached Orbe by five in
the afternoon, and took up our quarters at the "Guillaume Tell," full of
expectation for the morrow.

On the 16th, we had breakfasted, and were beginning the ascent of the
Jura before seven o'clock.  The weather was fine, and we enjoyed a
succession of interesting objects, till we reached that which was the
motive of our excursion.  First we had that view of the Alps which, if
it were possible, it would be equally useless to describe to any who
have and any who have not stood on the eastern slope of the Jura, on a
clear day.  Then we wound among the singular defiles of this mountain
range, till we reached the valley which is commanded by Jougne.  Here we
alighted, climbing the slope to the gate of the town, while the carriage
was slowly dragged up the steep winding road.  Our appearance obviously
perplexed the two custom-house officers, who questioned us, and peeped
into our one bag and our one book (the Handbook of Switzerland) with an
amusing air of suspicion.  My companion told them that the aim of our
journey was the fortress of Joux; and that we expected to pass the
frontier again in the afternoon, on our return to Orbe.  Whether they
believed us, or, believing, thought us very foolish, is best known to
themselves; but I suspect the latter, by their compliments on our
cleverness, on our return.  At Jougne we supplied ourselves with
provisions, and then proceeded through valleys, each narrower than the
last, more dismal with pines, and more chequered with snow.  The air of
desolation, here and there rendered move striking by the dreary
settlements of the charcoal-burners, would have been impressive enough,
if our minds had not been full of the great negro, and therefore
disposed to view everything with his eyes.

The scene was exactly what I have described in my story, except that a
good road, made since Toussaint's time, now passes round and up the
opposite side of the rock from that by which he mounted.  The old road,
narrow and steep, remains; and we descended by it.

We reached the courtyard without difficulty, passing the two drawbridges
and portcullis described.  The Commandant was absent; and his lieutenant
declared against our seeing anything more than the great wheel, and a
small section of the battlements.  But for great perseverance, we should
have seen nothing more; but we obtained, at last, all we wanted.  We
passed through the vault and passages I have described, and thoroughly
examined the cell.  No words can convey a sense of its dreariness.  I
have exaggerated nothing--the dim light, the rotten floor, shining like
a pond, the drip of water, the falling flakes of ice, were all there.
The stove was removed; but we were shown where it stood.

There were only three persons who pretended to possess any information
concerning the negro prisoner.  The soldier who was our principal guide
appeared never to have heard of him.  A very old man in the village, to
whom we were referred, could tell us nothing but one fact, which I knew
before--that Toussaint was deprived of his servant, some time before his
death.  A woman in the sutler's department of the fortress pretended to
know all about him; but she had never seen him, and had no further title
to authority than that her first husband had died in the Saint Domingo
invasion.  She did us the good service of pointing out the grave,
however.  The brickwork which surrounds the coffin now forms part of a
new wall; but it was till lately within the church.

This woman's story was that which was probably given out on the spot, to
be told to inquirers; so inconsistent is it in itself, and with known
facts.  Her account was, that Toussaint was carried off from Saint
Domingo by the ship in which he was banqueted by Leclerc (the last of a
line of two hundred), weighing anchor without his perceiving it, while
he was at dinner.  The absurdity of this beginning shows how much
reliance is to be placed upon the rest of her story.  She declared that
the Commandant Rubaut had orders from the Government to treat the
prisoner well; that his servant remained with him to the last; that he
was well supplied with books, allowed the range of the fortress, and
accustomed to pass his days in the house of the Commandant, playing
cards in the evenings: that on the last night of his life he excused
himself from the card-table, on the plea of being unwell; that he
refused to have his servant with him, though urged not to pass the night
alone; that he was left with fire, fauteuil, flambeaux, and a book, and
found dead in his chair in the morning; and that the physicians who
examined the body declared his death to have been caused by the rupture
of a blood-vessel in the heart.  This last particular is known to be as
incorrect as the first.  As for the rest, this informant differs from
all others in saying that Mars Plaisir remained with his master to the
last day of his life; and we may ask why Toussaint's nights were to be
passed in his horrible cell, if his days were so favoured; and how it
was that no research availed to discover to the eager curiosity of all
Europe and the West Indies the retreat of L'Ouverture, if he, a negro,
was daily present to the eyes of the garrison of the fortress, and to
those of all the inhabitants of the village, and of all the travellers
on that road who chose to raise their eyes to the walls.

Our third informant was a boy, shrewd and communicative, who could tell
us the traditions of the place; and, of course, young as he was, nothing
more.  It was he who showed us where the additional stove was placed
when winter came on.  He pointed to a spot beside the fireplace, where
he said the straw was spread on which Toussaint lay.  He declared that
Toussaint lived and died in solitude; and that he was found dead and
cold, lying on that straw--his wood-fire, however, not being wholly
extinguished.

The dreary impressions of the place saddened our minds for long after we
had left it; and, glad as we were, on rejoining our party at Lausanne,
to report the complete success of our enterprise, we cannot recur to it,
to this day, without painful feelings.

How the lot of Toussaint was regarded by the generous spirits of the
time is shown in a sonnet of Wordsworth's, written during the
disappearance of L'Ouverture.  Every one knows this sonnet; but it may
be read by others, as by me, with a fresh emotion of delight, after
having dwelt on the particulars of the foregoing history.

  "Toussaint, the most unhappy Man of Men!
  Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough
  Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
  Pillow'd in some deep dungeon's earless den:--
  O miserable Chieftain! where and when
  Wilt thou find patience?  Yet die not: do thou
  Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
  Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,
  Live, and take comfort.  Thou hast left behind
  Powers that will work for thee: air, earth, and skies
  There's not a breathing of the common wind
  That will forget thee: thou hast great allies;
  Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
  And love, and Man's unconquerable mind."

The family of Toussaint were first sent to Bayonne, and afterwards to
Agen, where one of the sons died of a decline.  The two elder ones,
endeavouring to escape from the surveillance under which they lived,
were embarked for Belle Isle, and imprisoned in the citadel, where they
were seen in 1803.  On the restoration of the Bourbons, not only were
they released, but a pension was settled on the family.  Madame
L'Ouverture died, I believe, in the South of France, in 1816, in the
arms of Placide and Isaac.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

What Napoleon afterwards thought of the dungeon of Toussaint, is known
through an anecdote which I have received from high authority.

The next occupant of Toussaint's cell was the Duc de Riviere, afterwards
the first French ambassador to Constantinople.  The Duc (then Marquis)
was a young man, on the point of marriage with Mademoiselle de la Ferte,
when, for some unknown offence, he was thrown into prison at Joux, and
apparently forgotten.  There he wasted three of the best years of his
life.  Mademoiselle de la Ferte never relaxed in her efforts to obtain
his liberation; but she was told, at length, that Napoleon was weary of
her solicitations, and that further efforts on her part would have no
better result than increasing the displeasure of the Emperor.  In the
hour of her despair, the kind-heartedness of Josephine came to her aid.
The ladies caused a model of the cell at Joux to be prepared--bearing
the most exact resemblance to the horrible abode; and this model
Josephine placed, with her own hands, on the bureau of the Emperor.

"Ah! fi donc!  Quel est ce lieu abominable?" said the Emperor.

The Empress informed him that it was one of his Majesty's state prisons;
to which he replied that it was impossible; that no man could live
four-and-twenty hours in such a den.  This brought out the information
that the Marquis de Riviere had lived three years in it, and was still
lying there, by his Majesty's commands.

"Otez-moi ca!" cried the Emperor, tartly.  "Cette vue me fait fremir."

The model was removed.  The Marquis was presently afterwards liberated.
He retired to Germany, where he was met by Mademoiselle de la Ferte,
whom he there married.  In after-years he was fond of relating the
anecdote which I have given, as nearly as possible, in his method and
language.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

For some years I have read whatever came within my reach on the subject
of my present work: so that it would not now be easy to assign my
authority for every view and every statement it contains.  The
authorities which I have principally consulted while actually writing, I
will, however, give.  They are--Rainsford's "Historical Account of the
Black Empire of Hayti;" the above-mentioned article in the _Quarterly
Review_; Bryan Edwards's "Saint Domingo"; the article "Toussaint
L'Ouverture," in the "Biographie Universelle;" and the "Haytian Papers,"
edited by Prince Sanders.

Of these, Bryan Edwards, who did not live to complete his history,
barely names my hero; and the reports he gives of the Revolution of
Saint Domingo are useful chiefly as representing the prejudices, as well
as the interests, of the planters.  The article in the _Quarterly_ is
valuable, as being an able and liberal digest of various narratives;
some derived from Hayti itself.  Rainsford's book is nearly unreadable,
from the absurdity of its style; but it is truly respectable in my eyes,
notwithstanding, from its high appreciation of L'Ouverture's character.
It contains more information concerning Toussaint than can be found, I
believe, anywhere else, except in the Biographie; and it has the
advantage of detailing what fell under the writer's own observation.
The Biographie furnishes many valuable facts; but appears, from the
inconsistency of various parts, and the confused impression which it
conveys as a whole, to be a compilation in which the workman has been
more careful to record dates and other facts correctly, than to
understand the personage whose portrait he professes to give.  The
"Haytian Papers" are the most valuable of all authorities, as far as
they go.

Of my other personages, all had a real existence, except Monsieur Revel,
Euphrosyne, and their servants; some of the planters mentioned in the
second chapter; the children of Bellair; the Abbess and her
establishment; and some of the visitors at Toussaint's levee; with a few
other subordinate characters.

Of the real personages, several were probably very unlike what I have
represented them.  I knew the names of some, without knowing their
characters; as in the instances of Placide and Isaac, Messieurs Pascal
and Moliere, Mars Plaisir, Madame Oge, the Marquis d'Hermona, Laxabon,
Vincent, and Paul.

Of others, I knew the character and history, without being able to
ascertain the names; as in the instances of Madame Dessalines and Madame
Bellair.  Since the issue of my first edition, I have learned that the
name of Madame Dessalines was Marie; and her second name, before
marriage, Claire or Clerc.  I have not thought it advisable to
substitute Marie for Therese in this edition, as nothing could be
thereby gained which would compensate for disturbing the associations of
my readers in regard to one of the chief personages of the story.

Of others, such as the wife, daughters, and third son of Toussaint,
Monsieur Papalier, and the tutors, Azua and Loisir, I knew only that
they existed, without being able to learn their names or characters.
The only character designed to be fully and faithfully accordant with
history is that of Toussaint himself.  Those which have much, but less
absolute, pretension to historical truth are those of Jean Francais,
Christophe, Dessalines, and the other negro Generals, old Dessalines,
Bellair, Raymond, the French Commissaries and Envoys, Bayou, and Moyse.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  I believe the term "morne" is peculiar to Saint Domingo.  A
morne is a valley whose bounding hills are themselves backed by
mountains.









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